Maggie’s memory painted the picture for her. Back then, it had been winter. Mountains of snow were piled on the street corner. The engineer who waved at her from a passing train wore an orange down coat and gloves. The sky was slate gray over her head, like it was today. And across the street, parked beside the two-story house, was a white Toyota Rav4.

The Rav wasn’t there anymore. There were no cars on the street or in the driveway. Even so, she remembered being here, questioning a man on the front porch. She and Guppo had interviewed dozens of Rav owners in Duluth and Superior, trying to pinpoint one of them who may have been parked on the street near Janine Snow’s home on January 28.

‘The owner’s name was Seymour Pugh,’ Maggie recalled. ‘He was on our checklist back then. He owned a white Rav, and he had a criminal record for burglary. I talked to him about Jay’s murder.’

‘Cat’s boyfriend is Al Pugh,’ Serena said.

Maggie nodded her head in frustration. ‘Al must be his son. That’s the connection.’

She’d misread Seymour Pugh all those years ago. He’d fooled her.

She was angry with herself, but there was no way she could have put the pieces together back then. Pugh was just one of many interviews, one playing card dealt from a full deck. She remembered liking him. He was a family man. A man who stayed with his wife and kids instead of running out. A man who got a solid job after his run-ins with police and prison.

A job. Maggie remembered Seymour Pugh’s job, and it meant something important to her now.

‘Pugh told me that he drove a truck,’ she said. ‘He was all over the Midwest delivering machine parts. Including Illinois.’

‘You think he was the one who bought the gun on the street in Chicago,’ Serena concluded. ‘That’s how the gun got to Duluth.’

Maggie banged her fist into her palm. She was stupid. Pugh had given her a song and dance about his values, about supporting his family, about finding God. She’d believed him. And now, she was convinced that he’d lied to her. The clues fit, and they all pointed in one direction. The white Rav. The connection to Chicago, where the murder weapon had been sold. The stolen jewelry that came from Pugh’s house.

She’d been talking to the man who murdered Jay Ferris.

‘Come on,’ Stride said. ‘Let’s go inside.’