Police on both sides of the bay hated the bridge. Fog, ice, and snow caused numerous accidents. Wind blew cars and trucks across the lanes. Jurisdiction was always a headache, because the state line cut right through the center of the bridge. Then there were the citizens who used the High Bridge like the Golden Gate, as a favorite spot for suicides. The Blatnik offered no pedestrian walkway, only a gravel-strewn shoulder and a three-foot concrete barrier. Leave your car at the height of the span, get out, and take a three-second journey to neverland.
Stride had seen the bridge from both sides, helping untangle wrecks on the highway in the fog and sailing under the bridge in Coast Guard boats as they trolled for bodies. To him, the bridge meant death.
He drove fast in the left lane, crossing under the blue steel arch of the bridge and descending into the decay of northern Superior. He made his way off the highway onto Tower Avenue, driving past shuttered storefronts, where the main street was a ghost town. The two cities were known as the Twin Ports, but Superior was the poor sister, its population declining, its economy staggered by industrial decline. No one made money here. No one built houses. Everyone looked for work and staved off the wolf at the door.
Stride drove south, past the city’s small retail strip into the low, empty land. He turned onto a dirt road that led across a series of railroad tracks. The home that Rikke and Finn Mathisen shared was on a two-acre lot at the end of the developed land, where the road ended in waste and fields. The grass on the square lot was long. Oak trees yawned over the three-story Victorian house. Blue paint chipped away from the siding.
He parked his Expedition across the street and got out. He was immediately adjacent to an unguarded railroad crossing, where nothing but a white X marked the tracks. Tilting poles of telephone wires paralleled the railway. Stride could see a train rumbling between houses a quarter mile away. Its whistle blasted through the quiet in several staccato bursts. When it stopped, he noticed the calmer noise of wind chimes tinging from the Mathisen porch.
It was nearly eight o’clock on Thursday evening. On sunny summer nights, there would be more than an hour of light left, but the clouds overhead were thick and gray, making the dusk look like night. A steady breeze blew dust off the dirt roads. Hot, humid air came with it. Stride walked up the sidewalk, where green grass pushed between the squares of pavement. He noticed a driveway leading to a detached garage behind the house and saw a 1980s-era tan Impala parked in the weeds.
The wooden steps to the porch sagged under his feet. He went up to the front door and peered inside, seeing lights downstairs. When he rapped his knuckles on the door frame, he saw a tall, stocky woman emerge from the kitchen with an apron tied around her waist. She answered the door, and Stride saw an older version of the woman who had taught him math during his junior year in high school.
“Can I help you?” she asked, drying her hands on the flowers of the apron. Under the apron, she wore a collared white knit shirt and shorts. The windows were closed, and the air from the house was stale and warm.
“Ms. Mathisen?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Lieutenant Jonathan Stride. I’m with the Duluth police. You wouldn’t remember me, but you were my math teacher for a year back in high school. That was longer ago than either of us would like to admit, I think.”
Rikke didn’t smile. “Police?”
“Yes, I was hoping to talk to Finn.”
“He’s not here.”
“Do you know when he’ll be back?”
“No.”
“Well, do you mind if I come in? I’d like to ask you a few questions, too.”
Rikke didn’t rush to invite him inside. “You said you’re with the Duluth police? Shouldn’t you have someone from Superior with you? This isn’t Minnesota, you know.”
“I know, but that’s not actually necessary,” Stride told her. “This won’t take long.”
Rikke shrugged and opened the door. Inside, the old house was decorated with worn throw rugs woven in diamond patterns and half a dozen clay pots of drooping philodendron plants. He noticed two skinny cats wandering across the wooden floors. A fine layer of cat hair had settled over the living room furniture, and he caught a whiff of ammonia. He sat down in an uncomfortable Shaker chair. Rikke untied her apron and sat on the sofa opposite him. She picked at the fraying fabric and pulled white foam from the arm of the sofa. An orange tabby walked across her lap.
“What do you want?” she asked.
He tried to picture the twenty-something teacher inside her. Back then, she had been tall and fit, with wavy, flowing blond hair and Nordic good looks. She had intense blue eyes and large circular glasses propped on her high cheekbones. Full, ripe breasts swelled underneath her white sweaters and defied gravity. Her fleshy, strong thighs bulged out of her jeans. She had a severe way about her in the classroom, like a dominatrix. They joked about it in the locker room. “Teacher, I’ve been bad.”
Thirty years had taken a toll on Rikke. She was heavier, with cellulite dimpling her legs. Her blond hair was short and came out of a bottle. Her face was rounded and jowly. She no longer wore glasses, but her eyes were as fierce as he remembered, like two globes of azure ice. He noticed that one breast sagged like a melting snowman across her chest, and where the other breast should have been, the fabric of her shirt puckered over empty space. A pink ribbon was pinned to the pocket.
“You taught algebra, didn’t you? Or was it geometry?”
“Geometry.”
“But not anymore?”
“Not in a very long time.”
“I have it right, don’t I? Finn lives here with you?”
“Yes, he does.”
“He’s your brother?”
“That’s right.”
“It’s unusual to find a brother and sister who have stayed together so long,” Stride said.
“Finn’s had a hard life,” Rikke replied. “He’s seven years younger than I am, and he’s always needed someone to look after him.”
“Why is that?”
“Why do you care? Do you suspect Finn of having done something wrong?”
“Not at all.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Finn provided some information that’s pertinent to one of our investigations,” Stride told her. “Candidly, I’m trying to assess his credibility as a witness.”
“What investigation?”
Stride didn’t reply.
Irritated, Rikke pushed the cat off her lap and pulled at her shirt. “What do you want to know?”
“Tell me about his background. You said he had a hard life.”