Time to turn over rocks.

He began with Eric's office. Eric owned a business called MedalSports, which was located in a drab manufacturing facility on a street near the airport, near businesses making medical supplies, aircraft parts, navigational equipment, and frozen foods. Small planes whined overhead as Abel pulled into the parking lot. The one-level building, painted chocolate-brown, had a series of loading docks, where several shipping trucks were backed up against the platforms. The parking lot was crowded.

He found a glass door leading into the building's office. The receptionist inside was on the phone, and he could see used tissues littering her desk. Her eyes were red-rimmed and watery. She was plump, in her late fifties, with half-glasses on a chain around her neck and gray hair peeking out from under a baseball cap. The office was chilly, and she wore a bulky red down vest. She gave him a weak smile, cupped her hand over the phone, and told him she'd be with him shortly.

The tiny waiting room was functional, with a cheap rattan sofa, a white coffeemaker sitting on a filing cabinet next to a stack of Styrofoam cups, and a veneer coffee table stocked with sports magazines. He could hear the noise of manufacturing through the door that led to the shop floor.

He examined several framed photographs hung on the wall that showed Eric at the Olympics fifteen years ago, in his Speedo with a bronze medal around his neck. He was a physically imposing man, at least six feet four, with a muscled, hairless chest and buzzed hair that was so blond it was almost white. The other photographs were more recent and showed Eric with a variety of medalists from the Winter Games, including freestyle skaters, slalom skiers, and bobsled teams. They were all displaying MedalSports equipment. Abel noted that Eric had kept himself in good shape and wore the same brilliant smile in all of the photographs. He had grown out his hair and swept it back like a long, flowing mane over his head.

"He was very handsome," the receptionist said, hanging up the phone.

Abel grunted.

"You're not a reporter, are you?"

Abel shook his head and introduced himself. The receptionist told him her name was Elaine.

"Is it true that his wife shot him?" she asked. "That's what the media is saying."

"We're still trying to find out what happened," Abel said. "I need you to answer a few questions for me."

Elaine sniffled. She grabbed another tissue, and her round cheeks puffed out as she blew her nose. "Of course."

"How long have you worked with Mr. Sorenson?"

"Ever since he started the company. He was a wonderful man. He treated all of us like family."

Abel sighed. Everyone was a saint once they got murdered. "He sounds a little too perfect to me. No one's perfect."

"Well, I'm sorry, but we all loved him here." Her voice rose defensively.

"How about the business? How's it going?"

"Oh, extremely well. All of the employees got year-end bonuses. Mr. Sorenson shared the profits. He wasn't selfish."

Abel nodded. "Manufacturing is a tough racket. Lots of competition. Cheap foreign labor, right? That sort of thing."

"No, no," Elaine replied, shaking her head. "MedalSports makes high-end merchandise for a very targeted audience. Everything is handcrafted. We don't compete against mass-market operations. We sell to Olympic competitors and no one else."

"Is there really enough business to support that?" Abel asked dubiously. "The Winter Games only come around every four years."

"Well, yes, but they're practicing constantly. The athletes are involved in regional and world championship competitions, too. The right equipment gives you an edge, and we customize all our materials."

"Was Mr. Sorenson the sole owner?"

"Yes, he started the business shortly after he was in the Olympics himself. He was a bronze medalist in the butterfly, you know."

"Did he have a lot of debt?"

"Well, I'm no accountant. He has a line of credit with Range Bank. I never heard Mr. Sorenson express any concerns about capital or debt payments. We had record revenues last year."

"I'll need the names of Mr. Sorenson's accountant and lawyer. Do you have those?"

Elaine nodded. "Of course."

She wrote them down, and Abel slipped the information into his pocket. "You were pretty quick to think his wife did it. Why is that?"

Elaine frowned. "I was only repeating what I heard on television. I don't know anything."

Abel frowned back at her. "How am I supposed to solve this crime if you dish out crap like that? I never met a secretary who didn't know if her boss and his wife were having problems."

"I don't want to be a gossip," she retorted. Her cheeks bloomed red.

"You're not gossiping. Your boss was murdered."

Elaine struggled with her discretion and gave in. "Mr. Sorenson and his wife have had a difficult year," she confessed in a conspiratorial whisper. "I've heard them arguing a lot."

"When was this?"

"The worst fight was in November, a couple of months ago."

"What were they arguing about?"

Elaine shook her head. "I don't know."

"You must have heard something. Come on, it's not like these walls are six inches thick."

"It had something to do with sex," Elaine confided, her voice dropping as she said the word sex.

"How do you know?"

"I heard Mrs. Sorenson shout something through the door."

"What did she say?"

Elaine flushed. "This is very embarrassing."

"Tell me."

"I don't use this kind of language, you understand. Mrs. Sorenson called him-well, she said he was a muscle-bound, yellow-headed penis."

Abel tried not to laugh. "What else did she say?"

"I couldn't hear anything more. It's not like I was listening."

Of course not, Abel thought. "Maybe he was getting ready to dump her."

"Oh, no, no," Elaine insisted. "He loved her, he really did."

"Loving her doesn't mean being faithful, though, does it?"

Elaine picked at her fingernails. "I wouldn't know about that."

"You keep his schedule, you answer his calls. No way you wouldn't know if he was cheating."

"Mr. Sorenson was a very attractive man," Elaine said cautiously. "In the old days, before he was married, he dated a lot. Glamorous women. Models sometimes."

"And after he was married?"

Elaine pouted as if this was no one's business. "A man like that, women come after him."

"Who? I want names."

"I don't know names. Mr. Sorenson was secretive about his personal life. I didn't pry."

"You sound like you're holding out on me again, Elaine."

"No, I'm not. Mr. Sorenson was discreet."

Abel sighed. "Did other women ever come to the office for him?"

Elaine hesitated. "Sometimes."

"Who?"

"I told you, I don't know. There's one woman who comes by every few weeks. Tall. Red hair. She's older, probably in her forties. They were very… friendly with each other."

"You never asked who she was?"

"Well, one time she came by, and Mr. Sorenson was on the phone. When I asked for her name, she said, 'Tell him it's his alpha girl.' She thought that was very funny."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"I have no idea."

"Were there other women, too?"

Elaine looked unhappy. "Yes."

"Did his wife know about them?"

"You'd have to ask her. I don't know how much she knew. Mr. Sorenson was gone a lot, and sometimes Mrs. Sorenson would call, wondering where he was. And, uh, who he was with."

"Did he take any personal trips recently?"

Elaine nodded. "Yes, he was in the Twin Cities over the weekend."

"Doing what?"

"He didn't talk about it. I made reservations for him at the Saint Paul Hotel. He was gone over the weekend and came back on Monday afternoon. He seemed distracted."