Malcherson turned his eyes on Gino. ‘I read your Q & A with Detective Pullman. How was he?’

‘He looked like hell, if that’s what you mean. I didn’t put it in the report, but he pretty much fessed up to being on a toot since the day he walked out of here last year. Couldn’t even remember where he was the night his father-in-law was killed. Said he woke up on the kitchen floor holding an empty bottle, and that’s all he knows.’

‘You didn’t seriously suspect him.’

‘Marty? Jeez, no. But I had to ask. We gotta look at the family, and he knows that. Funny thing is, his brother-in-law? Jack Gilbert? First off, he hasn’t been on speaking terms with his folks for who knows how long – seems he married a Lutheran instead of a nice Jewish girl, which I’m guessing didn’t go over too well – so that’s interesting. And the night his dad bought it he was running the same deal as Marty, only in a better part of town. Got himself looped up at the Wayzata Country Club, woke up in his driveway next morning, and the people at the club say it’s almost an every-night thing. It’s like that whole damn family fell to pieces when Hannah got killed.’

Chief Malcherson looked down at his hands, and for a moment, no one said anything.

Even after a year, the mention of Hannah Pullman’s murder still had the power to stop any conversation in this building. Random violence was not unknown in Minneapolis, particularly in those few neighborhoods where gangs clung to a tenuous foothold and innocent bystanders were occasionally caught in the crossfire – but it was a rare thing, and always set the city on its ear. But the murder of an officer’s spouse had multipled the shock value a thousandfold, and everyone on the force had been deeply affected.

Sometimes cops were killed; that went with the job; but that risk was absolutely not supposed to extend to their families. The murder of Detective Martin Pullman’s wife had been a gut-wrenching wake-up call for every one of them, because Marty had been carrying, standing right next to Hannah when her throat had been cut, and still, he hadn’t been able to protect her. It made them all think of their families as a little more vulnerable, made them all feel a little more helpless, and the sad truth was, a lot of them resented Marty for that.

Why didn’t he shoot the bastard when he had the chance?

Magozzi had heard that question around City Hall a hundred times in the months afterwards, and it always made him feel bad, especially when Gino said it.

‘Did either of you know Hannah?’ Chief Malcherson was asking.

Magozzi shook his head. ‘Just to say “hi” to in the hall. She used to pick Marty up sometimes.’

‘I can’t stop thinking about Mrs Gilbert. Her daughter, and then her husband, both murdered within the space of a year. I don’t know how you survive something like that.’

‘Well, don’t get all touchy-feely about the old lady just yet,’ Gino said. ‘She didn’t have an alibi either.’

‘Gino didn’t care much for Mrs Gilbert,’ Magozzi explained.

‘What I didn’t care for was that she trashed a crime scene, she didn’t seem all that broken up that her husband was dead, and she’s got this attitude.’

Malcherson frowned at him. ‘What kind of an attitude?’

‘Pretty hostile, if you ask me. We’re just doing our job, trying to find out who killed her husband, so I ask her a couple of questions and she’s all over me.’

Malcherson slid a weary gaze over to Magozzi for a translation.

‘Gino asked if Mr Gilbert had had any “unusual business dealings,” and she took offense.’

‘Oh.’

‘She actually snapped at him.’

‘Ah.’ Malcherson looked back at Gino, and for one fearful moment, Magozzi was afraid the chief might actually smile. ‘In summary, then, you questioned her late husband’s integrity, and her response was less gracious than you thought you deserved.’

Gino started to blush, and his head seemed to be sinking into his neck. ‘You kind of had to be there.’

‘I’m very sorry she hurt your feelings, Detective Rolseth.’

Magozzi wiped his hand across a smile, and Gino saw it.

‘Aw, come on, Leo, it was a whole lot more than that and you know it. There’s something going on with that old lady. Forget that she didn’t shed a tear and she’s got a mouth like a whip. Did she fall to pieces when she found her husband dead? No. She gets him into a wheelbarrow – a wheelbarrow, for God’s sake – pushes him around, flops him on a plant table, then washes him with a garden hose and dresses him up for company. This is not your average grieving widow, and if we get caught up in that scenario, we close our eyes to the possibility that she might also be a killer who did her damnedest to destroy evidence.’

Malcherson leaned back in his chair and sighed. ‘You interviewed her, Detective Magozzi, and you listed her as a nonsuspect in your report.’

‘I’ll stand by that, at least for now,’ he said, but he was frowning, thinking about Gino’s image of events – Lily Gilbert dragging her husband around like a sack of grain – and his own picture of a distraught, elderly woman struggling to get her husband out of the rain, to make him ‘presentable.’ Either one worked; he just wasn’t a hundred percent sure which one was accurate, and in the long run, it might make a whole lot of difference. ‘But like Gino said, I agree that there’s something there. She’s a tough lady, and she’s pretty closed off. Could be she knows more than she wants to let on. Could be she’s protecting someone. I just don’t know yet.’

Gino brightened immediately. ‘Hey, I like that. Maybe she’s covering up for that sleazebag son of hers. Sure, she hates his guts, but she’s got that maternal thing going. So picture this. Jack Gilbert at the club, sucking up scotch like a Wet-Vac. Pretty soon he starts ruminating about his life and the appalling state of his familial ties, and he gets a little maudlin. The old man isn’t getting any younger, and Jack’s thinking maybe it’s finally time to patch things up. So when he gets kicked out at bar time, he decides to pay him a visit and bury the hatchet once and for all. But things don’t go so well, and next thing he knows, his father is dead and he’s holding a smoking gun.’

Malcherson raised one white brow. He was used to Gino’s off-the-cuff theories. ‘I don’t suppose you found any actual evidence that led to that postulation.’

‘Not a scrap,’ Gino said happily. ‘Just came up with it this minute.’

‘Does Jack Gilbert have a history?’

Gino shook his head. ‘Nah. Just a couple DUIs and some speeding tickets. No gun registered in his name or his wife’s name. But that doesn’t mean anything. And he’s a PI attorney,’ he added, apropos of nothing.

‘So give me a quick summary of the time line.’

Magozzi shuffled through his dog-eared mess of frayed spiral notebook paper. ‘Same routine as always, according to Mrs Gilbert – she went to bed right after the news, and Morey stayed up to do some paperwork and a few extra chores in the greenhouse. She said he usually turned in around midnight, but she can’t confirm that on the night of his death.’

Malcherson frowned his question.

‘They had separate bedrooms, sir. She said she slept straight through the night and woke up at six-thirty A.M. as usual. Found him outside the greenhouse shortly after that. But the ME estimates time of death to be between two and four A.M.’

Malcherson’s brows shot up. ‘A little late for an elderly man to be outside gardening.’

Magozzi nodded. ‘That’s what we thought, sir. Either something kept Morey Gilbert up and outside past his bedtime, or something brought him out there later.’

‘Or someone, like maybe his son,’ Gino pushed his latest pet theory. ‘Or if you don’t like the son, how about the wife? I could go either way.’

Malcherson gave him one of those long-suffering looks you see on the faces of parents confronting a problem child for the hundreth time. ‘Your empathy for grieving relatives gives me hope for mankind, Detective Rolseth.’