“I don’t have a mailbox yet,” Bear says. “My house is brand-new. It’s the only one up there.”

“In the River View tract?” Kateri asks.

“That’s the one.”

“That’s your development,” she says.

“It’s the company’s,” he says.

“Your company?”

“My mother’s,” he says. “Kerpak Industries.”

That’s when she looks at her notes. Kerpak is developing the land north of the woods, beyond the train tracks and farther, with large family homes, luxury condos, and, between here and Canada, a huge casino resort with a golf course, indoor water park, and trails for hiking and cross-country skiing. The existing property, in the woods, is privately owned. By Shannon Jenkins.

“You’re not listed as an employee of Kerpak Industries,” she says. When she did a search on him, she found no association with Kerpak. When she looked into the property, the only contact she found was Patsy Kerpak.

“I’m not,” Bear says.

“Are you on the payroll?”

“Technically not,” he says.

“Are you working on this residential project?” she asks, indicated the map she has of the park, the land Shannon now owns. “Or the casino?”

He gets to the bottom of his old-fashioned, and the bartender strolls down their way. He tops off Kateri’s glass of club soda from the gun, then places a fresh lime on the rim.

“Thank you,” she says.

He points at Bear’s empty glass.

“Please,” Bear says. He doesn’t answer her question about the projects.

“How do you know Shannon Jenkins?” she asks. She’s acting on a hunch, only the Post-it note in the property file at Sullivan’s office. She knows Miller is connected; she just isn’t sure how. And she’s curious to see if he denies it.

“He does some work for me,” Bear says.

“For Kerpak?”

“No, for me personally,” Bear says. He sips his new drink.

“What kind of work?” she asks, and he holds her eye contact a little longer than she finds comfortable.

“Extra hands,” he says.

“How did you find him?”

“At the diner.”

“I mean, how did you know he was looking for work?”

“I didn’t,” Bear says, and laughs a little. “But what nineteen-year-old dishwasher isn’t looking for better-paying work?”

Kateri sips and swallows hard, the bubbles caustic in her throat. From the side, Bear’s face has something elfin about it, the slant of his eyes toward his temples, the shape of his ears.

“Mr. Miller,” she says, and he laughs.

“Please,” he says. “Call me Bear.”

“Shannon’s a suspect in his mother’s murder, as well as the murder of Craig O’Neil.”

Bear seems neither alarmed by this nor particularly moved at all.

“Do you want my opinion?” he says.

“I think you’re probably going to give it to me either way,” Kateri says. She thinks he’s going to throw him under the bus. Give her reasons why Shannon would have killed his own mother.

“He didn’t do it,” Bear says.

She watches his face closely for any flicker of warmth, some recognition, a soft spot. She sees none. Instead, he seems particularly homed in on her—his gaze when she talks, the way he moves his tongue. If this weren’t an official interview, she’d have thought he was after something else. And she would have taken him up on it.