“Not much to go on there. Six feet tall, good build. Brown hair. His most telling features seem to be an odd ear and a habit of harassing women.”

“Maybe Paavola’s sister can help out,” Agent Shirley suggested.

“We’ll give that a shot and let you know.”

Cork tried calling the number Irene Boyle had given him. When he got no answer, he left a voice message.

“We’re less than an hour away,” Cork said to Dross. “What do you think? Worth the drive?”

She said, “I don’t punch a time clock. You need to get back?”

“I’d rather get a few answers first, if we can.”

There was still a faint glow of daylight in the west when they pulled into the driveway of the small rambler in Cloquet. The house was dark. They got no answer when they rang the doorbell, and the same result when they knocked.

“Must’ve gone out,” Dross said.

“Let me check for a car.” Cork walked around to the side of the attached garage, where there was a window. He used the flashlight app on his cell phone to illuminate the inside. It was a one-car garage, and the car was there. He returned and reported what he’d found.

“Gone for a walk?” Dross said.

“No lights on inside, so if she’s gone for a walk, she left before dark. Long walk.”

“Maybe at a neighbor’s?”

“Or maybe on her deck and she just can’t hear the doorbell?”

“Let’s check.”

They circled the house to the backyard, which sloped down toward the Saint Louis River. In that last, late light of day, the river’s surface was the dark blue of an old bruise. They climbed the half dozen stairs to the redwood deck. There was a round glass-top table with four chairs. A small vase of flowers had been set in the middle of the table.

“Check it out.” Cork nodded toward a shattering of glass on the boards of the deck.

The sliding door that led into the dining room had been left open. Dross led the way. “Irene!” she called out. “It’s Sheriff Dross! We need to talk!”

The house was sunk in the dimness of twilight, the white walls and carpet and furniture bathed in a dismal blue-gray hue.

“Irene?” Dross said in a loud, commanding voice. When she got no response, she said to Cork, “Check the bedrooms.”

There were two, both of them empty. But in the master bedroom, Cork saw that the bedding had been carefully turned back, as if prepared for someone to slip under the covers. He could also smell the faint hint of perfume.

He rejoined Dross, who was in the kitchen, eyeing a counter where a plate sat, arrayed with cheese and crackers. There was also an unopened fifth of Johnnie Walker Black, a whiskey glass, and an empty Perrier bottle.

“She said she’s been sober for years,” Dross said. “I’m guessing the Perrier was hers.”

“The seal on the Johnnie Walker hasn’t been broken. So whoever that was for either didn’t show or maybe had a different agenda in mind when he got here.”

“That broken glass on the deck is disturbing,” Dross said. “Let me try calling her.” She tapped in the number on her cell phone. She waited, eyed Cork, shook her head, then said into the phone, “Ms. Boyle, this is Sheriff Marsha Dross. I need to speak with you. It’s urgent. Please call me back.”

“What do you want to do?” Cork asked.

Dross scanned the empty house. “I think we should give Cloquet PD a call.”

Two officers responded, one male, the other female. Dross flashed her badge and explained their presence.

“We have reason to believe this may have something to do with Olivia Hamilton’s murder,” she concluded.

The surprise of the two CPD officers was obvious. “How so?” the female cop, who’d given her name simply as Officer Wardell, said.

“The girl’s body was found in a cabin that Irene Boyle and her brother own.”

“How come nobody told us about that?” the other cop, an Officer Grayden, said.

“Talk to BCA,” Dross told him. She led them out to the deck and showed them the shattered glass.

Wardell said, “But there’s no indication of foul play, really. Just broken glass.”

“She’s gone and her car’s still in the garage,” Dross pointed out. “Judging from what she’s left in the kitchen, it appears that she was expecting someone. I think it might be worth checking with the neighbors. Maybe somebody saw something.”

“We know how to do our job, Sheriff. We’ll take it from here,” Grayden said. To his partner, he said, “I’m going to call this in.”

He headed through the house and out to the cruiser they’d parked in front.

“Do you know her?” Dross asked Wardell.

The officer nodded. “I ran into her occasionally at the courthouse. She used to be a social worker. Foster care placements, I believe. Last I heard, she was working at Sizemore.”

“Sizemore?”

“Sizemore School. A private facility for troubled youth. The campus is in Bixby, about ten miles west of here. Excuse me. I need to check the rest of the house.”

She left them, and Cork looked at Dross. “Didn’t Daniel and Bonhomme say that Fawn Blacksmith was at a school for problem kids for a while?”

“That’s right,” Dross said. “Same school?”

“How many schools for troubled kids are there? Let me give Agent Shirley a call.” He tapped in her number on his cell phone. When she answered, he put her on speakerphone and briefly explained the situation.

“I spoke with BCA after your last call,” Agent Shirley told them. “The guy I talked to said they intended to interview Irene Boyle tomorrow.”

“Looks to us like someone was afraid of what she might tell them,” Cork replied. “This afternoon, didn’t you say that Fawn Blacksmith was in a school for troubled kids? Do you know the name of the school?”

“I don’t.”

“Well, get this. Irene works at a school called Sizemore, for troubled youth.”

“Same school?”

“A good bet. We definitely need to check it out. Has there been any lead on her brother yet?”