Fifteen minutes later, Ray got back in the car.

“Money,” he said. “It makes the world go around.”

“Did you arrest someone?”

Ray winked and looked pleased. “Keep an eye on the papers.”

He turned the Camaro around. “It’s not a good year for the filthy rich,” Ray said. “In May, they found that woman in Indianapolis. Marjorie Jackson. Shot in the stomach and five million bucks stashed around her house. I mean, can you imagine keeping your money in your vacuum cleaner bag? Now we lose Mrs. Congdon. Sometimes you wonder if it’s really worth it, having all that dough.”

“Like Randall Stanhope,” Stride said.

Ray nodded. “Yeah.”

“I think Peter killed Laura,” Stride told him.

“Yeah? Why is that?”

“It was his bat. I think he attacked her in the softball field, and she managed to get away, and he chased her up to the north beach.”

“Say you’re right,” Ray said. “How do you prove it?”

“Maybe someone saw him.”

Ray spilled coffee on his pants, and he dabbed at the stain with his fingers. “Maybe, but we need to find a witness first, and that witness has to be willing to testify against the son of one of the richest men in the city. Don’t kid yourself. Most witnesses won’t do that.”

“So you’re saying we can’t touch him?”

“I’m not saying that at all. But sometimes you know in your head that someone is guilty, and you still can’t make a case. Oh, and keep your opinions to yourself, Jon. When we’re inside the house, don’t speak unless I tell you to speak. Got it?”

“Sure. Why do you want me along anyway?”

Ray smiled. “Three reasons. First, I want Randall to think Peter is just another witness, not a suspect, and having you there will help me sell that idea. Second, I think Peter is less likely to lie if you’re in the room, because he’s not sure what you saw.”

“And the third?” Stride asked.

“Third, I don’t want anyone to think I gave Peter a free ride because of his daddy’s money. You’re my backup, Jon. Welcome to the police force.”

It was the kind of estate that reeked of old money. Robber baron money. The house and its grounds were surrounded by a fence made of iron spikes, with intermittent stone columns that matched the mottled fieldstones of the mansion. The brooding estate itself was a quarter mile inside the fir trees, nearly invisible from the road. Ray stopped at the two-story gatehouse and announced himself at the intercom. A minute later, an iron fence swung silently open. He drove through the trees and parked under the mansion’s porte cochere.

Stride had never been this close. He glimpsed fountains in the rear. Trimmed globe bushes. A fenced tennis court. The Tudor estate towered above him in sharp peaks, dozens of chimney stacks, and red Duluth stone. Most of the chambered windows were swathed in thick curtains.

“Did Randall build all this?” Stride asked.