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Tanned. Longish black hair cut in bangs. Black eyes. Curvy figure. Girl-next-door smile. A dark angel. She reminds me of someone else, too, but I can’t put my finger on who it is. Sleep deprivation is screwing with my memory.
    We ask to speak to Ivan Filippov. She buzzes an intercom and announces our arrival. He tells her to send us in.
    The office is nothing fancy. Concrete floors. Basic white walls and filing cabinets. A computer sits on a worktable. Filippov sits behind it. He stands to greet us. He’s maybe six-three, age fiftysomething, high-cheekboned and clean-shaven. His suit, shoes and haircut are expensive. His attire doesn’t mesh with the practical atmosphere of his business and speaks of vanity. “How can I help you?” he asks.
    We introduce ourselves. Pastor Oksanen takes the lead. He practices this on a regular basis and is better at it than we are. “Mr. Filippov, perhaps you should sit down. We have sad news.”
    Filippov’s expression turns quizzical and concerned. He regains his seat behind the desk, motions for us to sit. There are only two chairs on the other side of his desk. Pastor Oksanen gestures for Milo and me to take them.
    “It’s about Iisa, your wife,” Oksanen says.
    Two detectives and a pastor have come to bring bad news. Filippov must suspect the worst, but his voice is controlled. “What about Iisa?”
    “I regret to inform you that she is no longer with us.”
    He cocks his head to the side. “Then, pray tell, who is she with? I’m not a child, spell it out.”
    “She has passed on. Her body was discovered earlier today.”
    Filippov makes eye contact with Oksanen. His face registers nothing. “How did she die?”
    The pastor goes around the desk and places a comforting hand on his shoulder. “She was murdered. She’s with God now.”
    Filippov ignores the hand. “I’m an atheist.”
    Odd first words to utter upon being informed that his wife was slain. He looks at Milo and me. “Who killed my wife?”
    It’s always difficult to inform someone about the murder of a family member, but because she was planning to commit adultery when she died, this is even harder than usual. “Brace yourself,” I say. “This is unpleasant.”
    “You come in here and tell me that Iisa was murdered, then warn me about unpleasantness. Quit fucking around and get on with it.”
    His abrasiveness takes me aback. I give him his way and tell it straight. “She was having a long-standing affair with her riding instructor, a man named Rein Saar. They planned a tryst. She was found dead in his bed, beaten with an iron skillet and a riding crop, and burned with cigarettes.”
    “Did this Rein Saar kill her?” His accent betrays his youth spent in Russian Karelia. It sounds like Donald Duck speaking Finnish.
    “We don’t know yet. Saar claims she had a key to the apartment and was waiting for him to arrive. He maintains that he came home, was struck from behind and rendered unconscious. When he came to, he was in bed beside her and she was already dead. He says he never saw the assailant.”
    Filippov has yet to demonstrate sorrow, only impatience. “Do you believe him?”
    “Certain facts contradict his story, others support it.”
    Filippov leans back in his chair and folds his arms. “I want Iisa’s killer found and punished.”
    “I realize this is a shock and painful for you. Are you able to answer a few questions?”
    “Of course.”
    “Were you aware of your wife’s affair?”
    “No.”
    “It had been going on for two years. You had no clue?”
    He shakes his head. “None.”
    “They met a couple times a week. You never inquired about her comings and goings?”
    “Iisa maintained an active schedule. She participated in various organizations and had many hobbies, riding among them. She was-or at least I thought she was-a good and faithful wife. I had no reason to invade her privacy or interrogate her.”
    “Did she work?”
    “She had no need. I earn a comfortable