Blind Rage

by Terri Persons

  “I’m telling you now.”

  “Christ Almighty.” He got up off the couch and paced back and forth in front of the coffee table. “You’ve been physically assaulted twice in a forty-eight-hour period. Do you really think you should be going in to work Monday morning? You need some time off.”

  “So I can sit at home and feel sorry for myself?” She picked up the whiskey bottle to pour a fourth shot, had second thoughts, and set it down. “If you’re worried that I’m going to get all wiggy and go postal at the office, think about it. Who am I going to shoot? Creed’s already dead.”

  “Funny.” He stopped pacing and stood in front of her with his arms folded. “I want you to see a doctor first thing in the morning. Urgent care or the ER or whatever.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You complained about a sore back.”

  “I’m on the verge of something with these drownings,” she said. “I am not going to put the investigation on hold so I can put my feet up.”

  He pushed the Jack Daniel’s bottle off to the side and sat down on the edge of her coffee table to face her. “I got an update from the ME today.”

  “What did he say?” She pointed at him. “What about the lithium? Did he find lithium in Klein’s wineglass and in her system?”

  “He did.”

  “Crime scene crew. What about them?”

  “Hairs and fibers from Klein’s and Hammond’s. It’ll take the usual eternity to do the DNA deal.”

  “What color hair?”

  “Blond.” Garcia’s eyes narrowed. “I didn’t even ask before. Is Matthew VonHader—”

  “A towhead? You betcha. So is Luke VonHader.”

  “Hmmm. With the prof, that makes three blonds.”

  “What about prints?” she asked.

  “They’re thinking the killer used gloves.”

  “Evidence of sexual assault?”

  Garcia shook his head.

  “He used a condom, then. Or he drowned them, dried his hands off, and left to have sex elsewhere.” She chewed her bottom lip. “What is Minneapolis PD releasing to the media?”

  “They’re going to issue a statement saying the tub deaths were homicides. Period. No mention of the river deaths and certainly no mention of Zoe Cameron. If reporters ask whether the tub deaths are related to each other…”

  “They have already asked; they’re not that obtuse.”

  “…Minneapolis is going to say that possibility is being investigated, which is the truth.”

  “Have the cops or our folks mentioned Klein’s neighbor to the media yet? Has anyone hinted to the press that he gave us a description—albeit a crappy one—of Klein’s late-night date?”

  “No. That’s still being held under wraps.”

  “Let’s keep it that way.” She stood up, crossed the living room, and went over to the windows facing the riverfront. “I’ve got an idea.”

  Garcia got up and joined her at the windows. “I’m not going to like this, am I?”

  The sight of the Mississippi made her shudder. She buried her hands in the pockets of her robe, turned away from the water, and rested her back against the glass. “Ask them to hold off on releasing the description.”

  “I might be able to get them to do that. It’s so general—big blond dude—it’s useless.”

  “If word gets out that we have a witness who saw Klein with someone the night of her death, it could put one of our blonds on the move. If the newspapers and TV run a description of the suspected killer—even a vague one—it could really light a fire under someone to get out of town. I want people to think we’re all clueless. I want Wakefielder to think we’ve backed off.”

  “Lots of these serial killers get angry if they don’t get some sort of ink. They live to string law enforcement along and read about it in the papers.”

  “That’s not what this maniac is after. He’s not into it for the glory. It’s all about his sexual gratification.”

  “I’ve seen some freaky stuff in all my years of law enforcement. Torture and sex. Cannibalism and sex. Satanic worship and sex. Rottweilers and sex.” He shook his head. “But this water and sex…”

  “It’s not just water and sex. It’s about drowning and sex.” She felt her skin crawl under the terry cloth. Almost unconsciously, she pulled her robe tighter around her body. “Really, if you think about it, that old nautical tale about those sirens or whatever they were. They lured sailors to their deaths. Isn’t that about drowning and sex? This is the flip side of that.”

  “A man luring women into the water.” Garcia turned and looked at the river through the tall windows. “I hate to ask.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “If Matt did it, do you think he bumped you into the river to get off on it?”

  Her upper lip curled. “I wish you hadn’t asked, but I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?”

  “He didn’t stay around to watch. I think he knocked me in to get rid of me, or because he was furious with me. Both.”

  His brow furrowed. “You really think he’s the one who knocked you in?”

  “The more we talk about him, the more I want time to find out,” she said. “I haven’t ruled out the prof or the shrink as players in this. But I want to surprise little brother at his boat and check out his reaction. He may have tried to steer me away from Luke because I was getting too close to home.”

  He walked into the middle of the living room and turned around. “The water thing. Besides the fact that he hangs out on the river, which is fascinating as hell in light of your theory, any other indications he’s got some kind of water fetish? Drowning fetish?”

  She remembered the way Matthew had stood along the rails that night, staring out onto the water for a long time. It had seemed such an odd thing for a man out walking alone to do. Garcia would pencil in that observation under the “feelings” column, however, and summarily dismiss it. She left her resting spot against the windows and walked over to him. “Just get the cops to sit on that stuff about the witness and his description.”

  “For how long?”

  “Until I can pay a visit to my favorite drinking buddy. Ask him if he wants to go for a swim. Maybe he’ll make me breakfast on the river tomorrow.”

  “Take your gun.”

  “You think the Glock is okay after going into the river with me?”

  “Hell, yes. I’ll put in for a new one if you want, but shit. People fire it under water, which is a real dumb-ass idea. I heard about this one dude who put his Glock in a bucket of Drano, just to see what would happen. It came out good as new. He ran a hundred rounds of ammo coated with Gorilla Glue and had no failures.”

  “Give me a break. I read about that online.”

  “You don’t believe it?”

  “The part about the Drano maybe, but not the Gorilla Glue.” She lifted his wrist and checked his watch. “Time for you to go home, unless you plan on sleeping here.”

  “Best offer I’ve had today,” he said.

  Feeling her face heat up, she let go of his wrist. “I was joking.”

  “Seriously, are you okay by yourself tonight? You’ve been through the wringer. I could—” His eyes fell on her sofa.

  “Oh. Right. Great idea.” She took a step back from him. “I can’t imagine anything more distracting than having you right downstairs. I’d never get any sleep.”

  His brows arched. “Distracting?”

  “You probably snore. You look like the type that snores.”

  He took a step toward her. “You’re right. I do snore.”

  They stood inches apart, staring at each other for several seconds. Bernadette finally broke the silence. “Well…”

  “Yeah.” He took his coat off the kitchen chair and put it on.

  They walked to the door together. “Thanks for pulling my backside out of the hot coals. Again.”

  “That’s what I’m here for.”

  As soon as the door snapped shut behind him, she made a beelin
e for the whiskey bottle to pour one last shot before bed. For a lot of reasons, it was going to be a long and sleepless night.

  Chapter 29

  DISGUSTED WITH HERSELF FOR HER JD BINGE, BERNADETTE stood under the shower for a good twenty minutes while the hot water pummeled her scalp. The top of her head felt ready to erupt, and her mouth tasted like swamp swill with a whiskey chaser. She had to shake it off. Since Matthew was undoubtedly not a morning person, she wanted to barge in on him while it was early and catch him off guard. Hopefully the out-of-control girlfriend was still at his place; the woman might blurt something useful in front of Bernadette.

  Even though she was nauseous, Bernadette forced herself to choke down some toast with her coffee. While she longed to throw on a pair of comfortable jeans, she pulled on one of her usual dark suits and a stiff white blouse. This assignment required that she dress every bit the part of an FBI agent. If he was the one who’d tried to kill her, Matthew needed to know whom he’d targeted: an officer of the goddamn federal government.

  The holster was dry enough to use. Snapping in her Glock, she wished she had time to take it to the range and try it out. Nevertheless, she was confident the gun would work. She found her backup trench in the closet, with a pair of gloves inside a pocket. She slipped on her sunglasses; this morning the shades were needed to camouflage her hangover as much as her mismatched eyes.

  SHE HESITATED for an instant before turning her Ranger onto the bridge. Crossing the Mississippi felt like getting back on a horse that had thrown her and then kicked her in the head. The river wasn’t the enemy; Matthew was probably the one to blame for her dunking.

  The sky was gray, but the wind wasn’t blowing as it had been the night before. She spotted a rowing crew taking advantage of the calm to break out their longboat. It used to be that when she saw boats gliding along the Mississippi, she’d try to imagine what it would be like to tip and go into the water on a cold day. Having had the experience for real, she now fought to push tipping thoughts from her mind.

  Her personal cell rang. “Yeah,” she croaked.

  Garcia said, “Cat?”

  “You’ve got the right number.”

  “Are you still in bed?” he asked.

  “Funny.”

  “Seriously, where are you right now?”

  “Heading for my diving coach’s house.”

  “Wait for me in the parking lot.”

  “I don’t need any backup,” she said, turning onto Harriet Island. “I can handle it solo.”

  “That was not a request, Agent Saint Clare.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Stay in your vehicle until I get there.”

  She rolled into the St. Paul Yacht Club parking lot and slowed as she went by Matthew’s gleaming Jag. “I’d like to go down to the houseboat by myself.”

  “I don’t have a problem with that,” he said. “I’ll stay out of sight.”

  She pulled in between two sedans, slammed on the brakes, and put the Ford in park. “Why didn’t we discuss this earlier?”

  “I had a chance to sleep on it. Besides, last night didn’t seem a good time to start a fight. You were two sheets to the wind.”

  She turned off the engine and fingered her keys. “I was not. Anyway, how long will you be?”

  “Ten minutes tops.”

  True to his word, Garcia pulled into the lot ten minutes later. He cruised past her truck and parked at the opposite end of the tar rectangle. She waited until he was at her door before getting out of the pickup. Bernadette kept her eyes on the gate. “How do you want to do this?” she asked.

  “You tell me,” he said. “It’s your show.”

  “Let’s get down to the dock and scope it out. I’m thinking you can cover me from the deck of a neighbor’s boat.”

  “What if he invites you inside? Then what?”

  “I’ll stand by a window. His boat has a lot of windows, and he doesn’t seem to care about closing the blinds.”

  “And if he makes a move you don’t like—”

  “I’ll signal you. I’ll look out the window like I’m taking in the scenery.”

  “This is stupid and dangerous,” Garcia groused. “We should have stopped at the office and got you wired.”

  “I’m not worried about him,” she said. “He’s a soft rich boy.”

  “A soft rich boy who might have tried to drown you last night.”

  “He got lucky,” she said. “Today I’ve got someone watching my back.”

  “Damn straight.” Garcia reached inside his coat, took out his Glock, and pocketed it. “I suppose we’re going to have to hop the fence,” he grumbled.

  “Pretty much.”

  The two of them jogged across the street and were almost to the gate when a man and a woman exited. Bernadette caught the gate before it closed shut. The couple didn’t give a glance to the man and woman in trench coats. Bernadette waited until she and Garcia were going down the steps before she said anything. “They didn’t recognize me.”

  “Who?”

  “The couple leaving through the gate—they were the ones who took me in last night. Lor and Wally. Nice folks.” She pointed to their houseboat. “That’s their place. The Three-Hour Tour.”

  “Cute name.”

  “I can’t believe they didn’t recognize me.”

  “You did look pretty scary last night. In fact, your skin still has a toxic sort of glow this morning. A greenish vibe. Is it the river or the Jack Daniel’s?”

  “I don’t care to talk about it.”

  As they stepped onto the boards, Garcia ran his eyes over the moored boats. “Which one?”

  “Matthew’s is near the end of the dock,” she said in a low voice. “It’s the one with the lawn chairs topside.”

  “The Ruth?”

  She’d missed the name of the craft last night. “Yeah. The Ruth.”

  “Must be the name of a girlfriend.”

  “Not last night’s girlfriend. That boat would be called the Harpy.” She stopped and stared at the Good Enuf. It was dark, and she saw no signs of activity inside. Its window shades were in the same position as the night before. “This was where I was camped out last night, until Matt or another asshole pushed me overboard.”

  “No rails around the deck,” observed Garcia. “You were an easy mark.”

  She nodded toward the massive planter sitting on the Good Enuf. “Want to crouch down behind that?”

  “That wouldn’t hide one of my butt cheeks.” He stepped onto the small houseboat. “I’ll hide along the far side of this tub’s cabin and watch from around the corner.”

  “That side walkway is pretty narrow, and it isn’t railed either,” she warned. “Watch your footing.”

  “Same to you.” He took his place at the far corner of the smaller houseboat’s cabin and nodded. She walked up to the Ruth and turned her ear to the door. She couldn’t hear a thing, but she wasn’t surprised. Even during the wild domestic spat, the boat had remained soundproof. She tapped twice while glancing over at Garcia. After waiting a minute or so, she knocked harder. No answer. She banged on the door with her fist.

  The door popped open, and she stepped back. Matthew was standing in the doorway barefoot and in a bathrobe. “Agent Saint Clare,” he said, running a hand through his wet hair. “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

  “Sorry to get you out of the shower,” she said.

  He tightened the belt around his robe. “It seems like we saw each other just twelve hours ago.”

  “You got home all right, obviously.”

  He folded his arms in front of him and said indignantly, “I wasn’t that intoxicated.”

  “I was afraid you were going to fall in, and the river this time of year is so cold,” she said evenly, and watched for his reaction.

  He didn’t bat an eye. “How did you figure out where I…Oh, never mind. Stupid question. You’re the FBI. You know everything.”

  His door was wide open, and she could
look into his kitchen, but she didn’t see anything except stainless steel and granite. “May I come in?”

  He buried his hands in the pockets of his robe. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I have someone staying with me and my guest is asleep.”

  “I’ll keep my voice down,” she said.

  “If this is about my brother’s files, I haven’t even had a chance to talk to him about them yet. I promise I’ll badger him later today.”

  “This isn’t about Luke. I have a few questions for you.”

  “Kyra Klein was my brother’s patient. I only know about her through Luke. I am so sorry I volunteered even that bit of information. Let’s not forget who called whom.”

  “That was damage control done on your brother’s behalf.” She brought her fingers up to her cheek. “What happened to you?”

  He put his hand over the large bandage slapped across his face. “I…cut myself…shaving,” he mumbled.

  “What did you do? Use a machete?”

  “Are you always this charming so early in the day?”

  She heard a thump and looked past him into the houseboat. “I’d really like to have a cup of coffee and talk. I’ve never seen the inside of one of these.”

  Reaching behind him, he grabbed the doorknob and pulled the door closer. “What is this really about, Agent Saint Clare?”

  “What did you do after you walked home last night?”

  His brows came together. “What in the world does that have to do with Kyra Klein?”

  “Please answer the question.”

  “I had a nightcap and went to bed.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.” A motorboat sped by on the river, gently rocking the houseboat. Behind him, the door swung open.

  “What about your guest? The girlfriend? Didn’t you have to stay up and entertain her?”

  “I never said my guest was female, now did I?” He smiled. “It’s a good assumption, though.”

  Bernadette heard another bang from inside the houseboat, and music playing. “It sounds like she’s awake. If I could speak with her a minute and get her to vouch for you…”

  “Leave her out of this.” He turned around and snapped the door closed. “She’s not feeling well this morning and I can’t imagine how talking to an FBI agent is going to improve her disposition.”