‘When did the surgery take place?’ Stride asked.
‘Last May. I’ve been coming to terms with it ever since. I only recently made the decision to sell this place.’
‘And how did you hear about the death of Dr. Snow’s husband?’
‘The morning news, like everyone else.’
‘Were you in Duluth?’ Stride asked.
Esther allowed herself a small smile. ‘You know, Lieutenant, you don’t need to be coy. You could come right out and ask me if I shot him. But really, do I look like a woman who would be traipsing through the streets of Duluth at night with a gun?’
‘No.’
‘No, and I wasn’t. I wasn’t in Duluth at all. I was in Minneapolis at the Guthrie seeing Lear with three friends. They’ll be happy to confirm it. We even have pictures of us together. I learned of the murder on WCCO the next day.’
‘I’ll need the names of your friends,’ Stride said.
‘Yes, of course. Does that resolve your concerns?’
‘Well, you’re obviously a wealthy woman, Mrs. Rose.’
‘True,’ she acknowledged. ‘Is that relevant?’
‘It means you have the resources to hire people to do things for you. Things you might not do yourself.’
‘Are you suggesting I hired a hitman?’ Esther asked. She giggled, genuinely amused. ‘Well, I don’t deny that I could afford it. Or at least I assume I could, since I don’t know the going rate for such things. However, women in my circumstances don’t often come into contact with hired killers. People like that don’t exactly advertise on the bulletin board at temple, do they? And Ira was a trademark attorney, not a mob lawyer. We didn’t hobnob with criminals.’
‘I understand,’ Stride said.
‘You’re welcome to review my finances, if it puts your mind at ease.’
Stride smiled as he stood up. ‘Actually, that would be helpful. Just to cross things off my list.’
‘Consider it done. You can talk to my attorney, and he’ll arrange it for you. He’s here in Duluth. Peter Stanhope.’
‘As in the Stanhope law firm?’
‘Yes, they handle all my affairs. Is there a problem?’
He sat down again and leaned forward with his hands on his knees. ‘I’m sorry. I have to ask, Mrs. Rose, did you ever have any contact with Jay Ferris yourself?’
She shrugged. ‘No, I never met him. I knew who he was, because of his newspaper columns. To be honest, he seemed like rather a vile man. Handsome enough, but without much class. Why?’
‘Jay Ferris contacted someone at the Stanhope firm not long before he was murdered. Do you know anything about that?’
‘Peter never mentioned it to me.’
‘Jay called an attorney named Tamara Fellowes. Do you know her?’
‘I don’t. As I say, I work exclusively with Peter. He owns the firm, and he handles most of my matters personally. Peter is the attorney who is suing Dr. Snow for me.’
Stride planned to call Archie Gale when he returned to his City Hall office, but he found that he didn’t need to do so. Gale was already waiting for him in a police conference room. With Janine Snow.
The attorney, looking dapper, hopped to his feet. ‘Ah, Lieutenant, sorry to barge in like this. Your assistant said you were on your way back to the office.’
‘I’m a little surprised to see you here,’ Stride admitted.
Gale cocked his head. ‘Well, Dr. Snow has something she wants to share with you.’
Stride sat down. Janine, on the other side of the table, looked chastened, which wasn’t typical for her. She stared at the table in front of her, not at Stride. Her hands were folded together. A few blond hairs strayed across her face.
‘What did you want to tell me?’ he asked.
She finally looked up, and her blue eyes were vacant. ‘It’s not something I’m proud of. Honestly, if it weren’t for a private detective threatening me with blackmail, I would have kept it to myself.’
Stride frowned. ‘What was this detective’s name?’
‘Melvin Wiley.’
‘And why was he trying to blackmail you?’
‘I was having an affair,’ Janine told him.
Stride said nothing. He looked at Janine and then at Gale. Finally, he said: ‘With whom?’
‘Someone my husband hated,’ she said. ‘And someone you know very well. A former cop named Nathan Skinner.’
12
Maggie parked on ice-covered ground and climbed down from her yellow Avalanche. A freight train clattered under the overpass of Highway 2 thirty yards away. Its cars were streaked with rust and graffiti. She was near a gritty industrial park in Superior, Wisconsin, in a residential neighborhood butting up to the train tracks. The land around her was piled high with plowed gray snow.
She saw the house she wanted to visit on the corner, protected by a soaring arborvitae that was twice the height of the roof. It was a small house, two stories, with vertical wooden siding painted in sea-foam green. A tall fence protected the yard, so she couldn’t see inside. The storm door had bars.
A white Toyota Rav was parked on the side street.
She and Guppo had already talked to more than two dozen Rav owners in the Twin Ports over the past several weeks. The interviews had produced nothing useful. There had been a white Rav parked near the base of the hill leading to Janine Snow’s house on the night of the murder, but they were no closer to discovering who owned it, or whether it had any connection at all to the death of Jay Ferris.
Maggie crossed to the house. The steps on the deck were slick with ice, and she gripped the wobbly railing to keep from falling. She knew her block heels weren’t made for winter, but she didn’t care.
A black man in his late twenties answered the door.
‘Seymour Pugh?’ Maggie asked.
He considered her with coal eyes. ‘What about it?’
‘That’s your Rav on the street, right?’
‘So?’ he asked.
She introduced herself. ‘I’d like to ask you a couple of questions.’
Pugh said nothing, but he stepped outside into the cold. Rule number one, Maggie thought: Never let cops inside your house. She took pride in the fact that she could size up a suspect as guilty or innocent within a few seconds, but Seymour Pugh’s face gave nothing away except calm distrust. That was no surprise, because he’d dealt with the police plenty of times in his life.
He was tall and skinny, wearing baggy red cargo pants and a white tank top stained with spaghetti sauce. He had a wide, flat nose with flaring nostrils and a chin that was fuzzy with long, curling hairs. His cornrows dipped below his ears. He had big hands with long fingers. His left ear sported an earring, and he wore a simple chain with a cross around his neck.
‘What’s this about?’ Pugh asked her.
‘Do you know a man named Jay Ferris?’
‘No.’
She dug in the pocket of her burgundy jacket for a photograph. ‘This is a picture of Mr. Ferris. Do you recognize him?’
‘No.’
‘He was murdered a few weeks ago. He lived in a big house up on the hill in Duluth. He wrote a newspaper column.’
‘Don’t get no paper,’ Pugh replied.
She rattled off the date of Jay’s death. ‘Do you remember what you were doing that night? It was a Friday.’
‘You’re kidding, right? One day’s like every other.’
‘Do you own a gun, Mr. Pugh?’
‘I got kids. No guns in my house. What are you talking to me for, anyway?’
‘You own a white Rav,’ Maggie said. ‘A witness spotted a white Rav not far from the house where the murder took place.’