“You think they know?” Suit said.

“I mentioned it to the governor’s man, Kennfield,” Jesse said.

“And you figure he blabbed.”

“Yes.”

They turned into a narrow building on West 57th Street.

“And you kind of want to see if he blabbed to them,” Suit said.

“I do,” Jesse said.

“Always nice,” Suit said. “If you think a guy’s a jerk, and he confirms your suspicion.”

“Always,” Jesse said.

They rode the elevator to the penthouse and buzzed at the office door. A voice asked who they were.

“Chief Stone,” Jesse said, “and Detective Simpson, from Paradise, Massachusetts.”

Suit grinned.

“Detective Simpson,” he murmured.

After a moment the door clicked open and they went in. A well-groomed young woman showed them through a short reception area and into Tom Nolan’s office. It was a narrow room that stretched across the front of the building. A window wall looked out over a part of the West Side.

With seven people in the room, it was crowded. Nolan sat behind a semicircular desk on the left wall, facing the windows. Four people sat in chairs in front of the desk, with the windows at their backs. At the far end of the office was a small white piano. In between were too many small tables, extra chairs, hassocks, and floor lamps. Suit went and stood beside the windows. Jesse stood near Nolan’s desk. Introductions were made: Lorrie Weeks, the current wife; Stephanie Weeks, the previous wife; Alan Hendricks, Weeks’s researcher; Sam Gates, Weeks’s lawyer.

“Ellen Migliore now lives in Italy,” Nolan said. “So she isn’t here. There are other, less prominent people in Walton’s life, but I wasn’t sure how deep you wanted me to go in assembling the group.”

“Ellen Migliore is the first Mrs. Weeks?” Jesse said.

“Yes.”

“This group is fine,” Jesse said.

“As Mr. Nolan pointed out,” Jesse said, “I’m the chief of police in Paradise, Massachusetts, where Mr. Weeks and Ms. Longley were killed. The large young man by the window is Detective Simpson.”

Suit nodded gravely to the assemblage.

“First,” Jesse said. “We are sorry for your loss.”

“May I ask a question?” Gates asked.

“Sure.”

“Paradise is a small town, is it not?”

“It is,” Jesse said.

“How big a police force do you have?” Gates asked.

“Twelve,” Jesse said. “Plus me.”

“Isn’t it usual for the state police to step in when there’s a big crime and a small, perhaps inexperienced, force?”

“That’s quite common,” Jesse said.

“But not in this case?” Gates said.

“State police are standing by,” Jesse said.

“But you’re running the investigation,” Gates said.

“Yes.”

“This is a rather important murder,” Gates said.

“They all are,” Jesse said.

“Touche,” Gates said. “Let me rephrase. This murder has created national attention.”

“Murders,” Jesse said.

“Of course, these murders have created national attention. Do you have the necessary resources?”

“We do,” Jesse said.

“Well, you’re confident,” Gates said. “I’ll give you that.”

“Thanks,” Jesse said.

“I assume you wish to ask us some questions,” Tom Nolan said.

“I do,” Jesse said.

He looked at Lorrie.

“You arranged burial.”

“Yes.”

“Private ceremony?”

“Yes, it’s how Walton would have wished it.”

“Back here,” Jesse said.

“Yes. This was home for Walton and me,” she said. “Mr. Lutz helped me with the arrangements.”

“The girl, too?”

“It seemed only decent. No one on her side of things seemed to care.”

“So you buried her back here, too,” Jesse said.

“Yes, it seemed the simplest arrangement.”

“Lutz took care of that, too,” Jesse said.

“Yes.”

“You might have had some formal moment,” Stephanie said.

Lorrie gazed at her blankly.

“I was, am, in a state of some shock,” she said finally.

Stephanie shrugged.

The two wives looked somewhat alike. Dark hair, good bodies, expensive clothes, expert makeup. To Jesse, Stephanie looked maybe twenty years older than Lorrie. Otherwise there was little to choose between them.

The two women looked at each other silently, until Lorrie spoke again.

“I was just so grief-stricken,” she said. “I didn’t know what I should do.”

“Hard to know what to do in these situations,” Jesse said.

“Oh God,” Lorrie said. “This is so awful.”

“I understand,” Jesse said to Tom Nolan, “that you have no next of kin for Ms. Longley.”

“No,” Nolan said. “She didn’t list any when we hired her. No one has appeared?”

“No.”

“God,” Nolan said, “it’s all over the news. If there were parents or somebody, they must have heard.”

“Weeks gets more attention,” Jesse said.

Nolan nodded.

“Still,” he said.

Jesse shrugged.

“Who inherits?” Jesse said.

“The estate has not been settled yet,” Gates said. “And it’s reasonably complicated. But there are substantial bequests to all three wives.”

“Is there one person whose bequest is more substantial?” Jesse said.

“Lorrie receives the largest share.”

“Anyone else in there but the wives?”

“There are small bequests to various staff members, and a modest bequest to Alan Hendricks.”

Jesse looked at Hendricks. He was a handsome young man, with close-cropped hair and olive skin. He was taller than Jesse, and slender, with big black-rimmed glasses.

“You were Weeks’s researcher,” Jesse said.

“Yes. Walton was very active on the phone, but I did much of the fieldwork.”

Jesse nodded. From his place by the window, Suit was taking notes. If ever we have detectives…

“What’s happened to Weeks Enterprises?” Jesse said.

“TV and radio, we’re doing a retrospective,” Nolan said. “You know, the best of…same with the newspaper column.”

“Then what?”

Gates stepped in.

“Once the estate is settled,” Gates said, “we’ll proceed in consonance with the wishes of the estate.”

“Who is, in terms of the shows and the column?” Jesse said.

“Lorrie, unless there’s something untoward.”

“Such as?” Jesse said.

“A problem in settling the estate,” Gates said. “Extended litigation. Walton Weeks is a public franchise, and like all such, the franchise depends on currency and continuity. If Walton Weeks were off the market for an extended time, his value would diminish substantially. For everyone.”

“Do you plan to litigate?” Jesse said to Stephanie Weeks.

“No. She got him away from me fair and square,” Stephanie said. “She’s earned it.”

Lorrie looked at Stephanie but said nothing.

“What are your plans?” Jesse said to Hendricks.

“I hope to continue Walton’s legacy,” Hendricks said. “In some capacity or other.”

“Why all this interest in the estate?” Gates said.

“Just assembling information,” Jesse said.

“You think his inheritance would be a motive?” Gates said.

“We’ve drawn no conclusions,” Jesse said.

“Do you have a theory of the crime?”

“The same gun killed Walton Weeks and Carey Longley,” Jesse said. “We speculate that it was used by the same person or persons.”

“That’s it?” Gates said.

“Yep. Anyone know why he was in Boston?”

No one answered.

“Mrs. Weeks?” Jesse said to Lorrie.

“Just said he was going up on business,” Lorrie said.

“How long was he going to stay?”

“He didn’t say.”

“You didn’t worry about it when he was gone for a while?”

“He was often gone for a while,” Lorrie said. “Our marriage was not about keeping tabs.”

“Did he do that when you were married to him?” Jesse said to Stephanie.

“Yes. Usually he was with a woman. Toward the end of our marriage the woman was her.” Stephanie pointed at Lorrie with her chin.

“Oh, like you were Miss Stay-at-home Faithful,” Lorrie said. “You were pretty busy yourself.”

“Weren’t we all,” Stephanie said.