Iron Lake: A Novel (Cork O'Connor Mystery Series)
William Kent Krueger
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New York Times bestselling author William Kent Krueger joined the ranks of today's best suspense novelists with this thrilling, universally acclaimed debut. Conjuring "a sense of place he's plainly honed firsthand in below-zero prairie" (Kirkus Reviews), Krueger brilliantly evokes northern Minnesota's lake country—and reveals the dark side of its snow-covered landscape.
Part Irish, part Anishinaabe Indian, Corcoran "Cork" O'Connor is the former sheriff of Aurora, Minnesota. Embittered by his "former" status, and the marital meltdown that has separated him from his children, Cork gets by on heavy doses of caffeine, nicotine, and guilt. Once a cop on Chicago's South Side, there's not much that can shock him. But when the town's judge is brutally murdered, and a young Eagle Scout is reported missing, Cork takes on a mind-jolting case of conspiracy, corruption, and scandal.
As a lakeside blizzard buries Aurora, Cork must dig out the truth among town officials who seem dead-set on stopping his investigation in its tracks. But even Cork freezes up when faced with the harshest enemy of all: a small-town secret that hits painfully close to home.
that broke her plastic scraper. She turned the defroster up full blast, and while the engine warmed and the air grew hot enough to begin melting a clear patch, she labored to brush snow off the rest of the car. Suddenly, out of the cold of the storm, she felt the touch of a deeper cold on her back, as if an icy hand had reached through her coat and touched her skin. She swung around, a shiver running down her spine, and peered into the swirling white behind her. She strained to look at the line
with a terrible crunching of dry autumn leaves. They came to the middle of the desolate ground, to a place where stumps and logs and branches had been piled in a heap, the way loggers would leave a mess for burning. The area was full of thistle grown chest high and autumn sumac with leaves gone bloodred along the branches. Sam looked the pile over carefully. In the evening light, it looked like something humped and dying. Sam Winter Moon chambered a round. He lifted his hand in a sign for Cork
daisies in the center and several issues of Smithsonian magazine fanned out carefully beside it. Proudly displayed on the mantel above a pale brick fireplace were framed high-school graduation photographs of the Schannos’ two daughters. Between the photos sat a beautiful old Seth Thomas clock. A decorated Christmas tree—a big Scotch pine—took up one corner of the room. A large console occupied another, but the television in it was off. Schanno took off his glasses and closed a book on his lap.
ornamented with a feather. She wore brightly beaded earrings and a beaded bracelet and possessed one of the most confrontive gazes Jo had ever encountered in another female. A young woman, probably twenty, though she was hardly larger than a girl, stood behind her, slightly hidden. “What kind of lawyer are you?” the large woman with the earrings and bracelet asked. “A good one,” Jo replied. “Are you a lawyer for money or for justice?” “Given the choice between those two, I lean toward
She leaned toward the other women confidently. “Word is, he’s poised for a run at the state legislature. I think we might have him there.” “You’ll do it?” Wanda Manydeeds asked. Her face, which was hard and tawny as sandstone, showed no emotion. But there was a flash in her eyes that Jo interpreted as satisfaction. “We’ll do it,” Jo replied. And they had. “How’s Sandy’s transition to Washington going?” Stu Grantham asked. “What?” Jo brought herself back to the moment, to Stu Grantham