Ray shook his head. “No, this is turn-of-the-century stuff. Before income taxes, know what I mean? For a while in those days, Duluth had more tonnage running through its harbor than New York. We were number one. A handful of families like the Stanhopes and the Congdons got very, very rich.”

“And now?”

“Now they’re doing everything they can to hold on to it.”

A maid greeted them at the door and showed them to a library on the other side of the vaulted foyer. Stride felt self-conscious, wearing shorts and a white baseball jersey. His sneakers slipped on the marble. Inside the library, he noticed squared beams stretching the length of the ceiling, wheat-colored wall coverings, and an Oriental rug overlaying a hardwood floor. One wall featured hand-carved bookshelves, lined with old volumes of ship logs from the 1800s. He saw oil paintings of old men in suits.

“Maybe I should go,” Stride said.

“Don’t be intimidated,” Ray replied. “These people belch, fart, and have bad breath like everyone else.”

They heard laughter from the doorway and smelled cigar smoke.

“Do I? I guess I should never have had the puttanesca for lunch.”

It was Randall Stanhope.

Stride had never seen him in person, only on television and in photographs in the newspaper. He was smaller than he expected, no more than five foot eight. He had trimmed gray hair and boxy black glasses, and like the men in the paintings on the wall, he wore a three-piece dark suit. In his left hand, he held a lowball glass filled with ice and an amber-colored drink. In his right hand, he pinched a cigar between his thumb and index finger.

“You’re Ray Wallace, is that right? The chief has told me a lot about you. Says you’re an up-and-comer in the department. I like that.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Who’s the boy?” Stanhope asked, fixing his blue eyes on Stride.

“This is Jon Stride,” Ray said. “He was in the park with Peter last night. He’s helping me re-create what happened that led to the death of this young girl, and I thought Peter could fill in some details where Jon wasn’t around.”

Stanhope smiled. “You’re a baseball player, like my son.”

Stride nodded. “That’s right.”

“Well, good.” Stanhope turned to Ray. “I hear they’re about to pick up Elisabeth Congdon’s son-in-law for the murders at Glensheen. Quick work.”

“That’s actually not public yet, sir.”

“Oh, I know, but the mayor called me. Nasty business.”

“Yes, sir.”

“But I know that’s not why you’re here.”

“No, sir. Is Peter in the house? I’d like to ask him a few questions.”

“Absolutely. I was horrified to learn about this girl’s murder. Brutal thing. Naturally, Peter will tell you everything he can. This girl was a friend of his, and he’s anxious to help you find out who killed her.”

“I appreciate that,” Ray said.

“Tell me something honestly, Detective. You don’t for one moment consider my boy to be a suspect, do you?”