“Hello, Cork,” she said dryly when he walked in.
“Hello, Justine. It’s been a while.” He shed his coat, draped it over the back of the office’s unoccupied chair, took a moment to shake her hand, then sat down.
“I don’t come back to Aurora much these days,” Justine said. “I wish I didn’t have to be here now.”
“I’m sorry about the circumstances,” he offered.
“Thank you.”
Dross said, “I’ve told Justine that we’ve pretty much exhausted our search of the area where we found her mother’s car and that our investigation has taken a turn toward possible foul play in her mother’s disappearance.”
Cork glanced at Justine. She’d had a couple of days already to deal with the fact that her mother was missing, but he could see from the muscles tensed across the bone of her face that this new turn of events had been especially hard on her.
“Would you mind telling Cork what you told me?” Dross said.
Justine looked at him, frowning just a little, the hollows in her cheeks deepening. “I thought you weren’t in law enforcement anymore.”
“He’s a licensed private investigator now, and he’s agreed to consult on this case,” Dross told her, saying it quickly but casually, as if it was quite an ordinary occurrence in the Tamarack County Sheriff’s Department.
Justine gave a slight shrug of her shoulders, a little gesture of whatever. She said, “My mother was seriously considering leaving my father.”
“Why?” Cork asked. Although knowing the kind of man the Judge had always been, he understood that it was, in a way, a silly question. “I mean, why now?”
Justine rubbed one hand over the other, her long fingers idly feeling the prominent knuckles. “I’ve been trying to get her to leave him for years. Devout Catholic that she is, she believes that a marriage is forever. Fine, I’ve always told her. You don’t have to divorce him. Just leave. But she’s spent her life under his thumb. It’s hard for her to change.”
“So why has she been thinking of leaving now?”
“It really began when all that crap came out about the LaPointe case years ago. I think it drove home to her what a morally corrupt man my father really is. That’s something I’ve known all my life, but Mom has always made excuses for him.”
She was talking about a situation that had come to light nearly two years earlier. A man named Cecil LaPointe was serving a forty-year sentence in Minnesota’s Stillwater Prison for the killing of a young woman twenty years earlier. LaPointe was a Shinnob, an Ojibwe, living in Tamarack County. He’d been tried and sentenced in the court of Judge Ralph Carter. It had been a brief but sensational trial. The evidence against LaPointe had been overwhelming. In the end, the deliberation of the jury-all white males-had been swift, LaPointe had been found guilty, and Judge Carter had delivered a sentence of forty years’ imprisonment, the maximum allowable under Minnesota law.
But nearly two years ago, Ray Jay Wakemup, who’d been little more than a kid at the time of the trial, had come forward with information about the crime, information that had been withheld from the jury and that cast significant doubt on LaPointe’s guilt. Ray Jay claimed that while the trial was under way, he’d shared this information with Judge Ralph Carter and also with the prosecution and the sheriff’s department. Yet none of those officers of the court or officers of the law had bothered to share the information with the defense.
“When it became public that Dad had been a part of all that-I don’t know what you’d call it, conspiracy against justice, maybe-I phoned Mom. She was terribly upset. I told her to come out and visit, and we could talk it over. It took her a year-she had to work up the courage to tell him she was going on her own-but she finally did last October. When she left to return to Aurora after her visit, I thought she was pretty well set in her decision. But once she got here, well, Dad can be formidable. She was afraid of him, plain and simple, afraid to stand up to him. I had offered to come out, to be with her when she told him. Actually, I begged her to let me come out, and we would tell him together. She agreed to it, tentatively, but asked me to wait until after the holidays. It seemed to her an awful thing to do to him over Christmas.”
“Do you think he might have known she was seriously considering leaving, even if she’d said nothing to him?” Cork asked.
“It’s possible. I don’t really know what my father’s capable of these days, mentally. And that’s what got me to thinking about the other thing.”
“Other thing?”
“Go ahead,” Dross said. “You can tell him.”
Justine mindlessly began toying with the gold band on her ring finger. “It’s something that might be important, I don’t know. A long time ago, my mother had an affair, and I don’t think my father ever forgave her.”
“How do you know this?” Cork asked.
“She told me during her visit in October.”
“The first you’d heard of it?”
“Yes. My parents have always been secretive people. It’s probably not something she would have shared with me, but once that whole LaPointe business came to light, she seemed different, changed, ready to get away from him and begin a new kind of life. It probably also had to do with me being grown now. It was something she could finally share with me woman to woman. You know?”
Dross nodded, as if she did know.
“What made you connect that affair with your mother’s disappearance?” Cork asked.
Justine’s already pinched face seemed to draw in even more, the pupils of her eyes like hard gray nailheads. “My father’s a man who never lets go of a slight against him. I thought that if you coupled Mom’s affair with her intent to leave him, it might have been enough to send him over the edge. And like I said, his thinking and his behavior is sometimes irrational these days. He gets irritated and easily angered. Mom’s had trouble with it and, because of it, trouble keeping help at the house.”
“Do you know who the affair was with?”
“That part she wouldn’t tell me.”
Cork glanced at Dross. “Did you tell her about the knife and gas cans and tubing?”
“Yes,” Dross said.
He shifted his focus back to Justine. “Do you think your father might be capable of having done something to your mother?”
“Something? You mean killed her? Yes. Absolutely.” They waited for her to go on, but that seemed to do it for her. She said, “What will you do now?”
“We’ll continue our investigation,” Dross said. “There are a lot of possibilities we have to consider. If I need to, can I reach you at your father’s house?”
“My father’s house?” She seemed shocked at the thought. “I’m not staying there. I’ve booked a room at the Four Seasons. But you can reach me on my cell phone anytime. You have the number.”
Cork had a thought and said, “Does your father own a cell phone?”
“No, why would he? He has the landline, and he never goes anywhere. My mother’s the one with a cell phone.” She looked at Dross, appeared drawn and tired and angry. “Is that all?”
“For the moment.”
Justine stood up and went to the coat tree, a piece of antique furniture that Marsha Dross had found and refinished and that was part of what gave her office its oddly comfortable feel. She took her coat, a long tan affair with a fur collar, and put it on. “You’ll keep me informed,” she said. It wasn’t a question.
“Of course.”
She turned and left, not bothering to close the door behind her.
Cork allowed a few moments to pass, to be sure that she was really gone, then let out a low whistle. “That’s one bitter woman where her father’s concerned.”