Stalked

"He was very handsome," the receptionist said, hanging up the phone.

Abel grunted.

"You're not a reporter, are you?"

Abel shook his head and introduced himself. The receptionist told him her name was Elaine.

"Is it true that his wife shot him?" she asked. "That's what the media is saying."

"We're still trying to find out what happened," Abel said. "I need you to answer a few questions for me."

Elaine sniffled. She grabbed another tissue, and her round cheeks puffed out as she blew her nose. "Of course."

"How long have you worked with Mr. Sorenson?"

"Ever since he started the company. He was a wonderful man. He treated all of us like family."

Abel sighed. Everyone was a saint once they got murdered. "He sounds a little too perfect to me. No one's perfect."

"Well, I'm sorry, but we all loved him here." Her voice rose defensively.

"How about the business? How's it going?"

"Oh, extremely well. All of the employees got year-end bonuses. Mr. Sorenson shared the profits. He wasn't selfish."

Abel nodded. "Manufacturing is a tough racket. Lots of competition. Cheap foreign labor, right? That sort of thing."

"No, no," Elaine replied, shaking her head. "MedalSports makes high-end merchandise for a very targeted audience. Everything is handcrafted. We don't compete against mass-market operations. We sell to Olympic competitors and no one else."

"Is there really enough business to support that?" Abel asked dubiously. "The Winter Games only come around every four years."

"Well, yes, but they're practicing constantly. The athletes are involved in regional and world championship competitions, too. The right equipment gives you an edge, and we customize all our materials."

"Was Mr. Sorenson the sole owner?"

"Yes, he started the business shortly after he was in the Olympics himself. He was a bronze medalist in the butterfly, you know."

"Did he have a lot of debt?"

"Well, I'm no accountant. He has a line of credit with Range Bank. I never heard Mr. Sorenson express any concerns about capital or debt payments. We had record revenues last year."

"I'll need the names of Mr. Sorenson's accountant and lawyer. Do you have those?"

Elaine nodded. "Of course."

She wrote them down, and Abel slipped the information into his pocket. "You were pretty quick to think his wife did it. Why is that?"

Elaine frowned. "I was only repeating what I heard on television. I don't know anything."

Abel frowned back at her. "How am I supposed to solve this crime if you dish out crap like that? I never met a secretary who didn't know if her boss and his wife were having problems."

"I don't want to be a gossip," she retorted. Her cheeks bloomed red.

"You're not gossiping. Your boss was murdered."

Elaine struggled with her discretion and gave in. "Mr. Sorenson and his wife have had a difficult year," she confessed in a conspiratorial whisper. "I've heard them arguing a lot."

"When was this?"

"The worst fight was in November, a couple of months ago."

"What were they arguing about?"

Elaine shook her head. "I don't know."

"You must have heard something. Come on, it's not like these walls are six inches thick."

"It had something to do with sex," Elaine confided, her voice dropping as she said the word sex.

"How do you know?"

"I heard Mrs. Sorenson shout something through the door."

"What did she say?"

Elaine flushed. "This is very embarrassing."

"Tell me."

"I don't use this kind of language, you understand. Mrs. Sorenson called him-well, she said he was a muscle-bound, yellow-headed penis."

Abel tried not to laugh. "What else did she say?"

"I couldn't hear anything more. It's not like I was listening."

Of course not, Abel thought. "Maybe he was getting ready to dump her."

"Oh, no, no," Elaine insisted. "He loved her, he really did."

"Loving her doesn't mean being faithful, though, does it?"

Elaine picked at her fingernails. "I wouldn't know about that."

"You keep his schedule, you answer his calls. No way you wouldn't know if he was cheating."

"Mr. Sorenson was a very attractive man," Elaine said cautiously. "In the old days, before he was married, he dated a lot. Glamorous women. Models sometimes."

"And after he was married?"

Elaine pouted as if this was no one's business. "A man like that, women come after him."

"Who? I want names."

"I don't know names. Mr. Sorenson was secretive about his personal life. I didn't pry."

"You sound like you're holding out on me again, Elaine."

"No, I'm not. Mr. Sorenson was discreet."

Abel sighed. "Did other women ever come to the office for him?"

Elaine hesitated. "Sometimes."

"Who?"

"I told you, I don't know. There's one woman who comes by every few weeks. Tall. Red hair. She's older, probably in her forties. They were very… friendly with each other."

"You never asked who she was?"

"Well, one time she came by, and Mr. Sorenson was on the phone. When I asked for her name, she said, 'Tell him it's his alpha girl.' She thought that was very funny."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"I have no idea."

"Were there other women, too?"

Elaine looked unhappy. "Yes."

"Did his wife know about them?"

"You'd have to ask her. I don't know how much she knew. Mr. Sorenson was gone a lot, and sometimes Mrs. Sorenson would call, wondering where he was. And, uh, who he was with."

"Did he take any personal trips recently?"

Elaine nodded. "Yes, he was in the Twin Cities over the weekend."

"Doing what?"

"He didn't talk about it. I made reservations for him at the Saint Paul Hotel. He was gone over the weekend and came back on Monday afternoon. He seemed distracted."

"Why?"

"I don't know. He talked about seeing a play at the Ordway, but other than that, he didn't say anything about his trip."

"What happened after he got back on Monday?"

"He wasn't in the office for more than a few minutes before he was gone again. Then he was in on Tuesday and Wednesday, but he had the door closed almost the whole day."

"Did he talk to his wife yesterday?"

"I don't know."

"What about his calendar? What appointments did he have?"

"He didn't have any meetings during the day, but he had me set up an appointment for yesterday evening."

"He met someone last night? After-hours?"

Elaine nodded.

"Was it a woman?"

"No. It was a psychiatrist named Tony Wells."

"Tony?" Abel asked, surprised.

"That's right."

Abel knew Tony Wells; he was the department's primary profiler on sex crimes. He also did trauma counseling for a lot of the region's cops and crime victims.

"Was Mr. Sorenson seeing Tony professionally?" Abel asked.

"Oh, no, Mr. Sorenson never saw a therapist. He was as solid as a rock. It was his wife. Mr. Sorenson told me that she had been getting counseling for months."

9

Stride lit a cigarette as he waited on the porch at Tanjy Powell's downstairs apartment. This was his first of the day, and it was already late afternoon. The wind mussed his wavy, salt-and-pepper hair with cold fingers. He glanced up at the sky, which was a bumpy mix of browns and blues. A few stray flurries floated in the air. After a few seconds, he turned back to the yellow door and pounded on it again with his fist, then listened carefully. There wasn't a breath of life inside.