Ever the analyst, she replied, “It was interesting, less for the floor show than for what made him think such an outing would benefit the marriage.”

The next day’s weather was an offshoot of the rain twenty-four hours earlier, offering the worst of an early New England spring—foggy, bone-chilling, and sloppy underfoot—combined with winter’s deep snow and propensity to turn moisture into ice. As Joe drove out of Vermont and entered New Hampshire to visit Melissa Monfet in Keene, he kept a wary eye for black ice, as he had watched his footing in the parking lot upon setting out. Bing Crosby had never warbled about breaking his neck while dreaming of a white Christmas, telling Joe the old crooner had never experienced a season like this one—if he’d ever visited New England at all.

The old and worn apartment complex where Melissa Monfet lived was all the more depressing as a result, its barracks-like grayness and monotonous, cracked vinyl siding almost blending into the lowering, threatening sky.

He hadn’t called ahead. That was rarely a good move, even with the chance that a drop-by visit could result in no answer. For that matter, a forewarned interviewee often guaranteed a wasted trip.

And Melissa’s visible disappointment upon opening the door told Joe that the currency of surprise was holding its value.

“Oh,” she said bitterly, “it’s you,” before turning and retreating down the hall.

“Mind if I come in?” he called after her.

“As if I could stop you,” she answered, not bothering to look back.

He took that as permission and followed her into the familiar living room, as disheveled as ever. Over time, visiting so many such homes had encouraged Gunther to leave his own every morning neat and tidy, with his bed made and dishes washed. One of many odd by-products of being a societal proctor.

Monfet flopped into a rickety armchair, barely missing a cat, who escaped with inches to spare. “You people put my man in jail and took my kids away, and from what social services and the lawyers’re saying, I’m probably looking at jail time myself. What the fuck more do you want?”

“There’s a murder to talk about,” Joe said conversationally, taking a seat himself.

“A murder?” she reacted. “Oh, that’s perfect. Of course there’s a murder. Why didn’t I think of that? I’m the cooperative one, after all. The one always doing favors. Why not dump it all on me? Who did I murder, policeman? I want to get his name right for the trial. Don’t wanna embarrass anybody, after all. Hell, it might look like you framed me or something, and we wouldn’t want that.”

Joe waited until she caught her breath. “Don Kalfus,” he said.

It stopped her cold. She stared at him, her mouth half-open.

“He was beaten to death and shoved into the trunk of a car,” Joe finished.

“Donny?” she echoed softly. “Oh, no.”

“When did you last see him?” Joe asked.

“About a week ago.”