wouldn’t identify her. Look, it’s upsetting, I know,” Hammer said, addressing his comment directly to Jenny. “Think it doesn’t bother me? I’m supposed to be the one keeping kids like her safe. Even Indian kids.”
“I’m sorry,” Jenny said. “I wasn’t suggesting—”
“That’s okay.”
“Considering what’s happened to Carrie, how are you proceeding with Mariah?” Cork asked.
“We’re not. We have no information, no new leads, no nothing.”
“If Carrie could hide up here for a year, couldn’t Mariah?” English said.
“Of course. But if nobody saw Carrie, who’d see Mariah? We don’t really have anything to go on. Look, one of our big problems is that nobody on the reservation is eager to talk to a cop, even one who’s wearing a Bad Bluff uniform.” He eyed English. “Are you Chippewa?”
“Yes.”
“Bad Bluff?”
“Lac Courte Oreilles, down near Hayward.”
Hammer didn’t look hopeful. “Maybe they’ll open up to you, but I doubt it. You’re not Bad Bluff. It’s a close community, the reservation.”
“I understand,” English said.
“But look, promise me this. When you’re poking around, if you find information that ought to change my thinking or that’ll give us something substantial to go on, you’ll let me know.”
“We’ll do that,” English told him.
Hammer opened his empty hands toward them all. “We’re not uncaring here. We’re just human and limited.”
Chapter 8
----
L ieutenant Hammer had given them Carrie Verga’s home address, as well as the telephone number. He also gave them the cell phone number of the girl’s stepfather. He’d told them Demetrius Verga was a widower. His wife had died in a boating accident a couple of years earlier. If they didn’t find him at home, he advised them to check the Port Superior Marina. Verga was an avid sailor and was often on the water.
They tried calling the house but got only voice mail. Same result with the cell phone number. Jenny keyed in the address on the Garmin app of her smart phone. The home, they discovered, was situated south of Bayfield, high on a hill with a gorgeous view of some old apple orchards and, beyond them, the broad water of Chequamegon Bay. A lovely gazebo stood on the sloping front lawn. A little way above the gazebo was a swimming pool filled with water so clear it looked like air and on which there was not a leaf or a ripple. The home sat against a great stand of hardwoods and was old and grand and beautifully maintained. In an elegant and inviting way, everything about it said money .
English pulled up the long drive and parked in front of a multicar garage. Cork got out, walked to the door, and rang the bell. He expected no one to answer and was surprised when the door swung open. A big-boned blonde filled the doorway, a woman who was clearly descended from Vikings and who looked as if pillaging might be second nature to her. She was probably in her forties, but her sour expression added a decade to her looks. She said nothingin greeting, just gave Cork a blue-eyed glare that might have sent a lesser man packing.
“Good morning,” he said in the cheeriest tone he could manage. “I’m wondering if I could speak with Demetrius Verga.”
“He’s not here.” Flat and hard.
“Do you have any idea when he might be home?”
“None.”
“And you are?”
“Not Mr. Verga.”
“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to tell me where I might find him.”
She pointed toward the lake. “Out there.”
“When he returns, would you mind giving him my card?”
From his wallet, he took one of the business cards he carried for his private investigation work.
She studied it, then looked at him, and there was interest in the hard blue marbles that were her eyes. “You’re a private detective?”
“I do private investigations and security consulting.”
“What do you want with Mr. Verga?”
“If you were him, I’d tell you. But you’ve already made it clear to
“I’m sorry,” Jenny said. “I wasn’t suggesting—”
“That’s okay.”
“Considering what’s happened to Carrie, how are you proceeding with Mariah?” Cork asked.
“We’re not. We have no information, no new leads, no nothing.”
“If Carrie could hide up here for a year, couldn’t Mariah?” English said.
“Of course. But if nobody saw Carrie, who’d see Mariah? We don’t really have anything to go on. Look, one of our big problems is that nobody on the reservation is eager to talk to a cop, even one who’s wearing a Bad Bluff uniform.” He eyed English. “Are you Chippewa?”
“Yes.”
“Bad Bluff?”
“Lac Courte Oreilles, down near Hayward.”
Hammer didn’t look hopeful. “Maybe they’ll open up to you, but I doubt it. You’re not Bad Bluff. It’s a close community, the reservation.”
“I understand,” English said.
“But look, promise me this. When you’re poking around, if you find information that ought to change my thinking or that’ll give us something substantial to go on, you’ll let me know.”
“We’ll do that,” English told him.
Hammer opened his empty hands toward them all. “We’re not uncaring here. We’re just human and limited.”
Chapter 8
----
L ieutenant Hammer had given them Carrie Verga’s home address, as well as the telephone number. He also gave them the cell phone number of the girl’s stepfather. He’d told them Demetrius Verga was a widower. His wife had died in a boating accident a couple of years earlier. If they didn’t find him at home, he advised them to check the Port Superior Marina. Verga was an avid sailor and was often on the water.
They tried calling the house but got only voice mail. Same result with the cell phone number. Jenny keyed in the address on the Garmin app of her smart phone. The home, they discovered, was situated south of Bayfield, high on a hill with a gorgeous view of some old apple orchards and, beyond them, the broad water of Chequamegon Bay. A lovely gazebo stood on the sloping front lawn. A little way above the gazebo was a swimming pool filled with water so clear it looked like air and on which there was not a leaf or a ripple. The home sat against a great stand of hardwoods and was old and grand and beautifully maintained. In an elegant and inviting way, everything about it said money .
English pulled up the long drive and parked in front of a multicar garage. Cork got out, walked to the door, and rang the bell. He expected no one to answer and was surprised when the door swung open. A big-boned blonde filled the doorway, a woman who was clearly descended from Vikings and who looked as if pillaging might be second nature to her. She was probably in her forties, but her sour expression added a decade to her looks. She said nothingin greeting, just gave Cork a blue-eyed glare that might have sent a lesser man packing.
“Good morning,” he said in the cheeriest tone he could manage. “I’m wondering if I could speak with Demetrius Verga.”
“He’s not here.” Flat and hard.
“Do you have any idea when he might be home?”
“None.”
“And you are?”
“Not Mr. Verga.”
“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to tell me where I might find him.”
She pointed toward the lake. “Out there.”
“When he returns, would you mind giving him my card?”
From his wallet, he took one of the business cards he carried for his private investigation work.
She studied it, then looked at him, and there was interest in the hard blue marbles that were her eyes. “You’re a private detective?”
“I do private investigations and security consulting.”
“What do you want with Mr. Verga?”
“If you were him, I’d tell you. But you’ve already made it clear to
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