potholes in this city – but it was an excuse to drop in on her, and he decided not to examine his reasons for wanting to do that too closely.
‘Alibi. The registration list.’ He said it aloud, as if giving voice to the feeble rationalization would make it more believable. His excessive speed was easier to justify. The broken car heater had mysteriously kicked in with a vengeance at eighty-five mph, and it was the first time he’d been warm since leaving City Hall.
He braked at the Cretin-Vandalia exit and turned off the turret light. By the time he drove the few blocks to Groveland Avenue, the temperature in the car had already dropped ten degrees and the plastic steering wheel started to feel like a circle of ice.
Even deep in the residential district, there were a few people out in spite of the cold. A group of preteens who should have been home in bed on a school night; a couple walking a long-haired dog so close to the ground it looked legless; a die-hard jogger who harbored the delusion that running past dark alleys and shadowy doorways was a healthy pastime. All of them wore gloves, even the kids, which made all of them smarter than he was.
He put one hand between his knees to warm his fingers and steered with the other, dreaming of his gloves at home on the closet shelf.
Grace MacBride’s house was as modest as any in this quiet, working-class neighborhood, which seemed a little strange in view of her net worth. What was a multimillionaire doing living in a tiny two-story stucco with a detached garage? Another contradiction to add to the collection.
He parked on the opposite side of the street and studied the house for a moment while he exhaled frost into the cold car. Opaque shades covered all the windows; the only source of light was a high-intensity flood that illuminated a tiny front yard bereft of landscaping. No frivolous flower beds, no shrubbery, no decorative, welcoming touches – just a plain cement walk that led to a heavy, windowless door.
He shut off the car and climbed out, tugging his collar up around his ears. The thin microfiber trench that had seemed like a good fashion decision in August was laughably ineffectual now. But like every good Minnesotan, except Gino, he’d wait until a near-death brush with hypothermia before he dragged out the down parka, as if wearing lighter clothing would somehow encourage the weather to adjust itself appropriately.
He crossed the deserted street and followed the arrow-straight walk up to a three-step cement stoop. He paused on the top step and studied the door.
The last time he’d seen a steel-clad door was on a homicide call at a suburban meth lab last spring. A pricey line of defense for drug dealers, mobsters, and the ultraparanoid. For an abused woman hiding out from a crazed ex-husband or boyfriend, it made good sense, as long as you had money, and it wasn’t the first time that particular scenario had danced through his brain.
He’d seen the fear in her eyes the first time he’d met her, and in that instant he’d thought,
He shook his head to clear it of thoughts going nowhere, noticed a gray plastic intercom box mounted on the door frame, and ironically, a rubber mat that said ‘Welcome.’ He wondered if that was Grace MacBride’s idea of humor.
As he stepped onto the mat, he distinctly heard an electronic whirring sound just above his head. He pinpointed the source quickly – a security camera, well camouflaged in the fascia of the eave, turning and focusing its ever-vigilant eye on him.
He knelt down and teased up a corner of the mat, exposing a pressure pad integrated into the concrete of the top step, obviously wired to the camera, and probably from there to an alarm somewhere in the house.
The pathology of paranoia kept rearing its ugly head, and on some level, it was incredibly disturbing. What justified this kind of security? If not an abusive ex, what then? Corporate espionage? He didn’t think so. As he’d learned from Espinoza just tonight, you never had to leave the comfort of your own home to lie, cheat, or steal in a world that was inextricably linked together by the World Wide Web.
He stabbed the intercom button and waited, his breath coming in frosty puffs. For more than a minute, there was dead silence, then three metallic thunks – three dead bolts being released.
The steel door swung open and Grace MacBride stood before him, her pale skin flushed and moist. She was wearing baggy gray sweatpants, an oversized T-shirt, and a ponytail. She would have looked almost vulnerable if it hadn’t been for the ankle holster and the derringer it held.
‘It’s eleven o’clock, Detective Magozzi.’ Her voice was flat, noncommittal. She didn’t seem particularly surprised that he’d shown up on her doorstep.
‘I apologize for the hour, Ms MacBride. Am I interrupting anything?’
‘My workout.’
He gestured toward the ankle holster. ‘You carry when you work out?’
‘I carry all the time, Detective, I told you that already. What do you want?’
A born hostess, Magozzi thought sarcastically. ‘I want to look at your .22.’
‘Do you have a warrant?’ Her voice remained impassive, her gaze steady. Chalk one up for MacBride – she was either innocent or sociopathic.
Magozzi sighed, suddenly feeling exhausted. ‘No, I don’t have a warrant, but I can get one. I’ll just stand here on this pressure pad and keep ringing your intruder alert or whatever the hell it is until Gino brings one over.’
‘Am I a suspect?’
‘Everyone’s a suspect. Any reason you don’t want me to see the gun?’
‘Because this isn’t a police state, Detective Magozzi.’
Goddamnit, she was snotty. No way she could have ever had a relationship with an abuser. With an attitude like hers, whoever it was would have killed her the first night.
‘Ms MacBride, there are people dying out there and you’re wasting time.’
The color of exertion on her cheeks turned the darker pink of fury. He’d hit a nerve. ‘
He refused to rise to the bait. He just stood there in the cold, hoping she couldn’t see him shiver beneath the thin coat, waiting for her to slam the door in his face. She surprised him.
‘Oh, the hell with it. Come in and shut the damn door. And stay right there. Don’t move a muscle.’
He stepped inside quickly, closed the door, and looked around. ‘No retina scan?’
She glared at him. ‘What are you talking about?’
Magozzi shrugged. ‘You’ve got a pretty serious security system here.’
‘I’m a pretty serious person,’ she snapped, turning and stalking down the long, dim hallway. When she disappeared behind a swinging oak door, he took a few steps in, looking for some indication that the place was actually inhabited, but the foyer and hall were as empty and anonymous as the outside of the house.
Stairway to the left, two closed doors – living room and what? Den? – to the right. In between there was nothing but a well-polished maple floor and eggshell walls. If Grace MacBride had a personality, which he was beginning to doubt, there were no insights here.
He heard angry footsteps and the swinging door burst open again. Grace glowered at him from the doorway. ‘I want this to be legit. If you want to see the gun, then you can look at it in the cabinet.’
‘Fine. Better yet.’
She watched in what Magozzi could only classify as deep disapproval as he walked toward her. If the look was designed to make him feel like a blundering interloper, it missed its mark. It just set him on edge.
‘Even you have to know this is ridiculous, Detective.’
He let the ‘even you’ part slide.
‘You think I’d use a gun registered in my name to kill people? You think I wouldn’t have cleaned it if I’d used it to kill that poor girl yesterday?’
No mention of the riverboat killing, Magozzi noted. Either she didn’t know about it, or was pretending not to. ‘Of course you would have cleaned it. I would expect nothing less from you, Ms MacBride. But detective work is largely a tedious process of information gathering and report writing. My objective here is to note your ownership of
