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Can you imagine his panic, his horror when he realized his brakes wouldn’t work? We don’t execute killers any more— maybe we should. Or maybe we should mete out justice ourselves.” Her eyes narrowed. “I’m capable of doing that. I would enjoy watching his killer suffer like my poor boy did. You’d better find him before I do, or don’t hold me responsible for what I’ll do.”

Four
    A fter they’d spoken to Lena, Rhona and Zee Zee returned to the Hartmans’ to interview each family member individually. They began with Curt. He escorted them to the family room, casually furnished in yellow and cream. A bowl of red apples on the glass and brass coffee table added a splash of colour. Inside, he positioned himself beside a wing chair upholstered in mustard yellow corduroy and waved them to the sofa.
    Rhona knew better. She was too short. The sofa would suck her down like quicksand or leave her perched uncertainly, unable to lean back because of the seat’s depth. A leather desk chair on casters provided an alternative. She rolled it to face Curt. Zee Zee, close to six feet tall and in no danger of being mired in the sofa, relaxed against the cushions and prepared to make notes.
    â€œHave you identified any of Ivan’s enemies?” Rhona said.
    â€œNo. Or friends either. He was a lone wolf.” He shrugged. “Not a true wolf—that implies strength and fierceness. He had neither—he was a loner.” He extended his legs and examined his shoes before he said, “I like my house shipshape. Like it to run well. No upsets. On an even keel.” He smiled faintly. “I’m a sailor. Nautical terms explain things. Until now, Ivan never rocked the boat.”
    Sounded like navy or army boot camp. The house revolved around Curt and his needs, and he resented the rough water stirred up by his son’s murder. Talk about egocentric.
    â€œWe’re covering all bases. Because you had similar motorcycles, you or your son Tomas may have been the intended victim. Can you name anyone with a motive to kill you?”
    â€œMe?” His mouth curved into a sardonic smile. “I expect many people would like me dead. Whether anyone would do it—that’s an interesting question.”
    â€œMr. Hartman, this isn’t a game. Someone killed your son in a horrible, premeditated way. If you were the intended victim, he or she may try again. We need to work quickly. Give me names.”
    â€œMy ex-partner, Arthur White, and my ex-wife, Lena Kalma, both hate me. Sometimes Arthur hangs around, muttering threats.”
    â€œHave you reported him?” Zee Zee said, looking up from her notebook.
    â€œI don’t take him seriously. Arthur’s a zealot. Once he clamps onto a subject, he hangs on like a pit bull until something else comes along. I figure he’ll eventually move on.”
    Zee Zee shook her head but said nothing. Stalking was a crime, and stalkers were to be taken seriously. They seldom shed their obsessions.
    â€œI’ll add the SOHD opponents to the hate list. They harass me with abusive phone calls.” His eyebrows rose. “On occasion, the caller has threatened to do more. They never say kill, they say remove, destroy —words like that.”
    â€œ SOHD ?”
    â€œStamp Out Hereditary Diseases. I’m local chapter president.” He moved into lecture mode. “We want to reduce numbers in hospital by eliminating hereditary diseases. We lobby for government money to educate people to voluntarily take genetic testing and not have babies if they carry hereditary disease genes. Our opponents, the same people who oppose abortion, think it’s like playing God.” He ran his hand through his silvery hair and turned slightly as if displaying his best side to the camera. “Because I’m known to be good with media, I’ve become their spokesperson.”
    â€œThank