After he left Marsha Dross, he dropped by Sam’s Place to check on things. That was one reason. The other was that he still conducted his private investigation business out of his office in the rear of the Quonset hut. That morning, he wanted to look at the file he’d created in his work for Erno Paavola.
Cork arrived at ten. Sam’s Place opened at eleven. Sylvia Villebrun was in charge that day and was busy getting things organized.
“Boozhoo, Sylvia,” Cork greeted her when he stepped into the serving area. “Beautiful day today. Going to be busy. Who’s on the schedule?”
Sylvia glanced up from where she was filling the deep-fry well with oil. She was nineteen, tall and willowy. Her long black hair was done in a braid that she’d curled under the net on her head. She’d worked for Cork every summer in high school. After graduation, she’d headed to the University of Minnesota, Duluth, with the intention of becoming a speech therapist. She’d returned at the beginning of the summer and was working for Cork again, putting away college money.
“Cass and Augie until three. Megan and Erica from three until closing.” She didn’t look up from her work. “Augie was supposed to help me set up. Running late. Again.”
“Want me to have a word with him?”
“I’ll take care of it.”
Sylvia set down the big jug of fry oil and looked at Cork. Her eyes were the color of polished maple wood. “I heard about the grave in the blueberry patch.”
“Yeah,” Cork said.
“Do they know anything?”
“Not yet.”
“Was it Olivia Hamilton?”
“It was a Native woman.”
“Crystal?”
“It’ll be a while before anyone knows for sure.”
Sylvia shook her head. “Two girls missing; it makes you wonder if any of us are safe.”
The summer before, Crystal Two Knives was one of the kids Cork had hired for Sam’s Place. She hadn’t come with high recommendations. In fact, Crystal’s caseworker warned Cork that the girl was trouble and would probably not be his best choice. Cork knew she’d been involved in an abusive relationship with an older man, a Shinnob named Red LaGrange, a punk Cork knew well and disliked immensely. But Crystal swore to him she was done with LaGrange. She wanted a different life for herself. So he’d given her a chance.
It was true that Crystal wasn’t particularly customer friendly. When she worked a serving window, she could be curt if faced with someone who grilled her about every menu item or hemmed and hawed in their choices. Mostly Cork had her working in back, preparing the food, which she turned out to be very good at. She knew her job well, didn’t waste a lot of time, and the orders were filled quickly. Cork often complimented her on the quality of her work, which, he had a sense, was more meaningful to her than the money she earned, though the money was important. She’d bought herself a car. A junker, it was true. But it was hers, and she was proud of herself for having accomplished that. Even when high school started again in the fall, she’d worked late afternoons or evenings until Cork had closed up Sam’s Place at the end of the season, earning, she said, gas money to last her the winter. Three months later, she’d gone missing.
Cork left Sylvia to her work and went to the file cabinets in his office area. He pulled out the file he’d kept during his investigation for Erno Paavola and wrote down the address he’d finally found for the man’s niece. It was in Cloquet, an hour and a half south of Aurora, near Duluth. He’d driven down to confirm his finding, had spoken briefly with the niece, and discovered that her brother was a welder and working a construction job somewhere on the North Shore. The niece hadn’t seemed much interested in her uncle, but Cork didn’t dig any deeper. His job was simply to locate them. He’d passed along the information to Paavola.
He said goodbye to Sylvia, but when he opened the door to leave, he was nearly bowled over as Augie Treuer rushed in.
“Sorry, Mr. O’Connor,” the kid said.
“Running late, are we?” Cork said.
“I got stopped. A ticket. Operating a motorcycle without an endorsement on my license.”
“Why don’t you have an endorsement?”
“It’s not my motorcycle. Belongs to my cousin. He lets me use it to get to work.”
Augie lived on the Iron Lake Reservation. Cork knew the money he earned went, in large measure, to help support the family.
Cork put a hand on the kid’s shoulder. “Tell you what. You work on getting that endorsement on your license, and in the meantime, I’ll have a talk with our sheriff, see if we can’t cut you a little slack.”
“Thanks, Mr. O’Connor. Thanks a lot.”
“Go on,” Cork said and gently urged the kid toward the serving area.
“You and the sheriff?” Rainy said.
“I’ll be back in time for supper,” Cork assured her.
“You really think it might have some connection to the Hamilton girl’s disappearance?”
“We won’t know unless we pursue it.”
“Thin ice,” she said. “The Hamilton girl’s disappearance isn’t your job or Marsha’s jurisdiction anymore.”
“Those monkeys that the FBI and BCA have working the case are still all focused on the customers in the Howling Wolf bar the night Olivia Hamilton went missing.”
“Doesn’t that make sense?”
“They’ve grilled every one of those guys mercilessly and, as far as I know, don’t have anything yet.”
Rainy sat on the sofa in the living room, folding laundry. Most days, she was either busy helping watch her grandson or spending time on Crow Point with her great-uncle Henry, or volunteering at the health clinic in Allouette on the reservation.
“I don’t know that I’ll bail you out if they throw you in the hoosegow,” she told Cork.
“A rap on the knuckles is the worst we’ll get. And we might come up with a lead.” Cork cocked his head, noticing the quiet in the house. “Where is everybody?”
