“Funny thing about that dog,” Hanover said at his back. “If you hadn’t shot him, he might’ve warned Lytton.”
Cork stopped. “What are you getting at, Helm?”
Hanover shrugged innocently. “I’m not getting at anything, Cork. I’m just asking questions. It’s my job.”
“But it’s not mine to answer them. You want to know anything about Lytton’s death, talk to Wally Schanno. He’s paid for it.”
Hanover wrote in his notebook; Cork went on ahead. Hanover caught up with him at the door to Sam’s Place.
“Just one more question. When the judge died, you were there. When Lytton died, you were there. If you were on the outside looking in, wouldn’t that strike you as a little funny?”
“See you around, Helm.” Cork eyed him pointedly until the newspaperman turned and limped back to his wagon. Hanover took out the notebook again and stood in the falling snow, writing. He glanced back at Cork, then slipped into the wagon and drove away.
Cork stood in the doorway. As much as he hated to, he had to agree with Hell. It was a little funny.
By the time Cork reached the old firehouse, the new snow had given a soft, fluffy covering to everything. Parrant’s white BMW sat in the parking lot. The windshield was still clear, and Cork figured Parrant hadn’t been there long.
Joyce Sandoval glanced up from her computer screen and eyed Cork over her half glasses. “I heard about last night,” she said. “It sounds awful.”
“I’d like to see Sandy.”
“Sure,” she said, and reached for the phone. “Just a moment.” She punched in three numbers. “Corcoran O’Connor is here to see you.” She listened a moment, then hung up. “He’ll be with you in a moment. Are you all right?”
“Fine, Joyce,” Cork replied, and turned abruptly away. He stood in front of a picture in the hallway, a framed aerial shot of Aurora. Yellow pins that indicated Great North holdings, covered the map like small pustules. The subdivision called Larkin Hills, the Aurora Mall, the Four Seasons Condominiums, the Aurora Office Park. The newest and most expensive of the holdings was also there. The Chippewa Grand Casino. Along the bottom of the enlarged photograph was the inked inscription, “Happy Birthday, Sandy. The Judge.”
“He’ll see you now,” Joyce said.
Parrant stepped out of his office just as Cork reached the top of the stairs. He eyed Cork steadily. “I’ve been expecting you. I talked with Jo this morning.”
“Talked? I didn’t think that was what you and Jo did together.”
Parrant was dressed for business. Blue suit, white shirt, red silk tie. The fragrance of a fine musk cologne scented the air around him.
“One of the things,” he replied calmly.
The door across the hall opened and Parrant’s secretary stepped out. “Mr. Parrant-” she began.
“Can it wait, Helen?” Parrant asked. “Cork and I were just about to have a conference in my office.”
“Oh, sure,” Helen said, and turned away.
“Why don’t we step inside to discuss this,” Parrant suggested.
Exposed beams ran across the ceiling of Sandy Parrant’s office. It had the same effect as a weight lifter showing his biceps. Strength on display. Parrant’s desk was very large, very dark, and very shiny. The papers on it were in small neat stacks.
Parrant went to a table near the window and picked up a silver pot. “Coffee?”
“I didn’t come on a social call.”
Parrant poured coffee into a white porcelain cup. “What are you here for, Cork? Want to take a swing at me?” He stirred in sugar and cream.
“I want to ask a question.”
“Only one?” Parrant carefully tasted his coffee.
“Do you intend to marry her?”
Parrant walked casually back to his desk and set the cup down. “I don’t see that that’s any of your business.”
“She comes with baggage,” Cork said.
“Baggage? You mean the children.” He looked at Cork disdainfully. “I’d never refer to my children as baggage.”
“They’ll never be your kids. You may get my wife, but you’ll never get my kids.”
Parrant sat on the edge of his desk, his hands folded calmly in his lap. He had the air of a high school principal sadly disappointed in the behavior of a student.
“Would you use them like weapons, Cork? What kind of father are you that you have to fight me through your children?”
“I don’t have to fight through my children.”
“I don’t think you have it in you to fight any other way.”
Cork exploded and lunged at him. Parrant seemed to have anticipated the move and ducked so that he caught Cork full in the chest with the top of his shoulder. They tumbled back. Parrant came up with a hard punch to Cork’s ribs that felt like the butt end of a log, then he danced easily away.
“Intramural boxing champ at Harvard.” He grinned at Cork.
Cork charged again, wrapping up Parrant in his thick arms. They went down heavily, knocking the phone off Parrant’s desk and toppling his chair. Parrant hammered jabs at the place on Cork’s ribs where he’d landed the first jarring blow, the same area that had taken a beating a couple of days earlier at Sam’s Place. The pain made Cork let go. Parrant rolled away and bounded up, his hands fisted. Cork struggled up, too, just as Parrant’s office door opened and his secretary stepped in. She stood a moment looking at the two men.
“Oh,” she said when she understood. “I saw your line go on and I thought-”
“That’s all right, Helen,” Parrant said, dropping his hands. He straightened his red silk tie and brushed his blue suit. “We were just finishing our discussion. I’ll be with you in a minute.”
The woman nodded, glanced at Cork, and backed quickly out.
Parrant ran his hand through his hair and looked smooth as ever. He moved back to his desk, picked up the phone, and righted the fallen chair.
“Jo said you had photographs. Where’d you get them?”
Cork’s ribs hurt every time he took a breath, but he didn’t want Parrant to know. “Does it matter?”
“I’d like to know who’s so interested in my private life.”
“You’re a senator now. You haven’t got a private life.”
“What are you going to do with the photos?”
“I haven’t decided.”
Parrant sat down and eyed Cork with an unruffled air. “I’m sure you can’t hurt me, Cork. But if you try, I’ll squash you like a bug.”
“I’m shivering in my boots, Sandy.”
He turned to leave. As he reached for the door and opened it, Parrant said at his back, “I’m used to winning, Cork. It’s what I do best.”
Outside Cork got into the Bronco. He undid his shirt and looked at the place where his ribs hurt like hell. The skin was already a brooding purple from the beating he took at Sam’s Place. There seemed to be a yellow-green border developing around the bruise. He wondered if Parrant had broken anything. He reached into his shirt pocket for a Lucky Strike, and hauled out a crushed pack. He extracted a bent cigarette, straightened it out, and lit up. After that he sat for a while staring at the windshield that was blanketed with snow.
Eventually he opened the gym bag. He hadn’t looked at the pictures since the night before. There was no point in looking again. He knew that. No point except to feed the coldness inside him. In a strange way, that was exactly what he wanted now. He wanted to feed himself to the cold until the cold had consumed him and he didn’t care anymore.
He stared at the folder. Manila, old and beaten. Doodles on the outside. Although dried blood obscured some things, others were quite clear. Squares, circles, scribbles. A word here and there. Idle scrawl. But there was something about that scrawl. It was different from the writing on the label that said “Jo O’Connor.”
He crushed out his cigarette in the ashtray and stepped from the Bronco. Folder in hand and moving gingerly because of his ribs, he hurried back into the building. He ignored Joyce Sandoval’s questioning glance and went straight to the aerial photo hanging on the wall. He studied the handwritten inscription on the matting. “Happy Birthday, Sandy. The Judge.” The late Judge Robert Parrant had written with a peculiarly grand flourish.