CHAPTER 12

The address Irene Boyle had given Cork and Marsha Dross for her brother turned out to be an old white one-story building at the edge of the small town of Dahlbert, a dozen miles from Spirit Crossing. Like many small towns in the area of the pipeline construction, Dahlbert’s population had swelled with pipeline workers, men for the most part, seeking temporary housing. The yard was in need of mowing, the house in need of a new coat of paint. Two graveled ruts led to a garage in back, where a Jeep Wrangler was parked. Behind that was a grove of birch trees.

Dross parked in the graveled ruts, and she and Cork got out. Dross rang the front doorbell, but nothing happened. Through the screens on the front windows came the voice of an announcer giving a play-by-play account of a baseball game. Cork heard the Twins mentioned. Dross knocked, then knocked harder. Finally, an old woman in a faded pink housecoat and wearing fuzzy pink slippers opened up and stared at them with a hostile expression. The odor of cigarette smoke came off her in a foul wave.

“What?” she said, a challenge, not a question.

“We’d like to speak to Mathias Paavola.”

“He don’t live here.”

“We were told he does.”

“Lives in back.”

“The garage?” Dross said.

“Converted garage,” the woman said as if she’d been insulted.

“Thank you,” Dross said.

The woman shut the door without replying.

“Landlady from hell,” Cork said.

“Come on.”

Dross led the way to the garage but got no response when she knocked at the side door. She pounded harder, with the same result.

“I’m guessing that’s his Wrangler,” Cork said. “Doesn’t strike me as the vehicle of choice for the landlady from hell.”

“So either he doesn’t want to talk to us or he’s out somewhere.” Dross leaned near the door. “This is Sheriff Marsha Dross, Mr. Paavola. I’d like to speak with you.”

When she still got no response, Cork said, “Maybe he just walked to a bar. We passed a couple in town. Why don’t you give him a call?”

Dross slipped her phone from her pocket and punched in the number Irene Boyle had given her. Inside the garage, a ringtone played the first few of bars “Ramblin’ Man,” then stopped.

“Maybe left his phone when he went out?” Cork said.

“My ass.” Once more, Dross pounded furiously on the door, then tried the knob, which didn’t yield. “Come on.”

She led the way back to the front door of the house, which she assaulted with her fist. The old woman responded much quicker this time. “What?” she squawked.

“Your renter. I’m concerned about his safety. Do you have a key?”

The old woman squinted at her. “Who are you?”

“Tamarack County Sheriff Marsha Dross.”

“You got ID?”

Dross pulled out her wallet and flashed her badge.

“You got some sort of order says I should let you in?”

“It’s called a wellness check,” Dross said. “It’s legal.”

The woman squinted at them both. “All right. Give me a minute.”

While she was gone, Cork heard the announcer go nuts over a grand slam home run. He hoped it was for the Twins. The landlady came back, still in her faded housecoat and fuzzy pink slippers. She handed Dross a key.

“Pretty quiet, that one. When he ain’t working, he’s usually drinking. Probably just passed out or something.”

“Thank you.”

Without another word, the woman shut the door.

Cork followed Dross back to the converted garage. Dross knocked once more, announced herself, then used the key.

The interior of the garage had been converted into a studio apartment. The place was a disaster. Clothes lay thrown everywhere, sheets half-torn from the bed, dishware and pizza boxes strewn about the floor. A stained easy chair was positioned in front of a thirty-two-inch flat-screen TV that sat on a squat stand. On the shelf beneath was a PlayStation console. There was a kitchenette with a small refrigerator, a sink stacked high with unwashed dishes. No stove, but there was a microwave oven and a hot plate on the minuscule counter next to the sink.

“Looks like someone tossed the place,” Dross said.

“I’d guess Mathias just has no interest in housekeeping.”

Thin wallboard had been used to create a tiny bathroom in one corner, with barely enough room to squeeze in a toilet, sink, and shower. Cork stepped inside. The bathroom was drastically in need of a good hard scrubbing. Or maybe, Cork thought, looking at the grunge that covered every surface, some gasoline and a match.

“Police scanner,” Dross said from the main room.

Cork returned and saw the unit sitting on a night table next to the bed. “What’s he need a police scanner for?”

“And where’s his phone?” Dross asked.

“Give him another call,” Cork suggested.

Dross punched in the number, but this time there was no ringtone in the converted garage.

“His phone just happened to die?” Dross said.

Cork stepped to the stained easy chair and picked up a beer can that sat on the floor beside it. “Still cold and only half empty. He must have bolted when we went back to get the key. In any case, he’s not here. What do you want to do?”

“A stakeout,” she said. “Collar him when he comes back. I want to know why he ran.”

“Now?”

“I’ll take you to Aurora, then I’m coming back.”

“I’d just as soon stick around. I’m as curious as you are.”