She slipped the card into the pocket of her slacks. Next to the cards were envelopes for memorials. She picked one up, opened the flap, and slipped a twenty-dollar bill inside. She tucked it closed and—without signing the front—dropped the envelope into the slot on top of the podium.
Bernadette walked into the chapel and found it so packed with people and flowers she couldn’t immediately spot the casket. Running her eyes around the room, she counted lots of gray heads. A few young couples dressed in jeans were hauling kids around the room with them. The majority of mourners were well-dressed middle-aged couples—Anna’s contemporaries, she guessed. A wall of people on the left parted, and she saw a glint of dark, glossy wood. She negotiated her way through the crowd, aiming for the kneeler planted alongside the coffin. She’d say a quick prayer and then snoop around the crowd for her guy.
Before she knelt, she studied the figure in the coffin. Anna Fontaine was as Bernadette had spied her through the killer’s eyes, except better defined—like starting out with an artist’s sketch and filling it in with greater detail and color. Blond hair fanned out over the casket’s satin pillow, the same way it had fanned out over the bed linen. Anna’s complexion actually carried more color in death than it had in life—courtesy of the mortician’s makeup palette. Resting in the corpse’s lap was that chain of green beads held by the hospital patient—and now Bernadette could see it was a rosary and not a necklace. A small detail, she told herself, but perhaps she wouldn’t have made the mistake had she been truer to her Catholic faith.
She went down on her knees and folded her hands in front of her.
Jerry sneaked into the hallway as members of Anna’s prayer group started distributing rosaries to the chapel crowd. He needed a fortifying smoke before wedging himself back inside the sardine can. His sons had finally shown up—without his burgers—and they could suffer without him for a while. As he yanked open the front door, he heard the cadence of group prayer begin behind him. He slipped outside, and was immediately immersed in a sense of guilty relief.
He didn’t want to be seen by anyone glancing out the mortuary’s front windows, so he headed for the public sidewalk that ran along the mortuary’s front yard. Keeping his back turned to the building, he lit up another cig and took a heavy drag. Exhaling, he watched the nighttime traffic going back and forth on the street in front of him. He spotted an empty bus-stop bench on the corner and went for it. He lowered himself down with a sigh and stretched his legs out in front of him.
Behind him, he heard footsteps heading down the mortuary’s walk. They sounded like a woman’s high heels. Fearing a tongue-lashing if he was caught by one of the church ladies, he slunk down on the bench. As the click-clack faded, he turned and peeked over the back of the bench. He saw a blond woman heading down the sidewalk that ran along the side of the mortuary. Someone else had bailed from the rosary recitation and was fleeing to her car. Good for her, thought Jerry. He wondered who it was; he couldn’t recognize her from the back, but she looked vaguely familiar. He shrugged and resumed his smoke.
A couple of minutes later, Jerry heard a man’s heavy footfall and turned around in his seat again. The reptile himself was clomping down the mortuary walk. Instead of following the woman down the sidewalk to the back parking lot, he hooked in the other direction, cutting across the front lawn, and disappearing between the mortuary and the building next door. Weird bastard. Jerry turned back around to face the street. He hoped the snake would follow the Bundt cakes and vanish as soon as Anna was buried. He took a long pull, held it, and exhaled. Flicking the butt in the gutter, he eyed the corner liquor store across the road. He made a mental note to pick up a bottle on his way home. Tonight would be a good night to get lit.
He dropped his face into his hands and wept.
Bernadette reached inside her blazer and touched the butt of her Glock.
Don’t get rushed tonight. Don’t get sloppy.
Why had she let Augie spook her? She withdrew her hand and kept going down the walk that ran along the side of the funeral home. She’d cut her watch short by exiting as the rosary was beginning, but she’d been uncomfortable lurking around Anna Fontaine’s gathering. Praying with the dead woman’s people would have been excruciating.
The evening had been a waste. As she’d suspected, the husband was not the killer. His demeanor was too meek, and his plump hands were not the murderer’s hands. She’d observed the other mourners but noticed no one behaving oddly. She’d been especially watchful of the area around the casket, studying large adult males in particular. Granted, the place was so full it was difficult to scrutinize every person. She’d periodically checked the podium in the hall for fresh signatures—again searching for doctors. She’d even asked a few folks if anyone from the hospital was in attendance, but nothing came of her search for a medical person. Fortunately, no one had asked her much of anything. As Garcia had requested, she’d kept her vigil low-key. Covert. She’d even been tempted to leave her gun at home, but then that damn Augie had dropped in with his ominous words.
They get careless and sloppy. Die.
As the sidewalk emptied into the parking lot, she pulled her blazer tight around her body. The night air was cool and damp and reeked of wet leaves, a smell that belonged to the late fall instead of the spring. Her truck was in the far corner of the tar rectangle, and she sliced a diagonal path to get to it. The blackness of the tar seemed to melt into the blackness of the night. The lot had none of its own lighting. Weak ambient illumination was provided by a streetlamp planted on the street that ran alongside the mortuary.
She was in the middle of the lot, standing between two rows of cars, when she heard the snap of a twig. She froze. Where had the sound come from? Another crack. Her eyes darted to the bushes lining the back of the parking lot. She sensed someone peering out from the darkness, watching her. The man she was hunting?
Bernadette reached inside her blazer and unsnapped her holster. She withdrew her hand and continued walking, but more slowly. She went another fifty feet before she slipped her hand back inside her jacket and pulled out her gun. She kept going, a slow but steady pace. The sound of the street traffic buzzing past the front of the mortuary seemed muffled and distant compared with the deafening thump of her shoes on the tar.
She deviated from the diagonal and cut between two minivans, heading straight for the back of the lot. Beyond the bushes was an alley—the ideal escape route for someone hiding in the hedge.
Bernadette allowed a distance of ten feet between herself and the bushes as she walked from one end of the hedge to the other, aiming the gun straight at the greenery. Was it her imagination, or could she smell him, smell his aftershave? Something cheap and musky. She struggled to maintain a steady, stern voice and to keep her volume below a panicky shout: “FBI…Step out with your hands in the air…I know you’re in there…I heard you.”
When she got to one corner of the back lot, she went around the bushes and crunched along the gravel alley behind it. “FBI…Come out now…Hands in the air.” She saw nothing, but the strip of shrubbery was dense enough to hide someone inside it. When she reached the end of the row of bushes, she stopped walking and scanned the alley, shared on both sides by residential garages and fenced backyards. Every other garage had a yard light mounted to its side. No one in sight.
Bernadette navigated around the bushes so she was back inside the lot and walked until she was in the middle of the line of greenery. She crouched down, arms extended. From the lower vantage point, she ran her eyes up and down the hedge. She stood straight and listened. Silence. Even the traffic from the front of the building seemed to have vanished. She lowered her arms, took two steps back, and waited.
“Long gone,” she sighed. She holstered her gun, turned on her heel, and went to her truck, glancing over her shoulder while she walked.
Twenty-four
Talk about careless and sloppy, she thought. She lifted her fist to knock and realized his door was already open a crack. Typical bachelo
r. She didn’t want to barge in and catch him walking out of the shower. She smiled to herself. Would that be such a bad thing? Besides, he’d already seen her half dressed. She issued a two-word warning—“It’s Bernadette!”—and slipped into his place.
“My God,” she whispered. She closed the door and leaned her back against it, afraid to walk farther inside.
Votives glowed on every sill—and there were better than a dozen windows lining the walls. More votives were scattered in groupings on the marble floor, like nighttime campfires dotting an open field. To her right, chunky pillar candles covered the kitchen island and littered the counters. On the left, a forest of tapered candles flickered atop a baby grand—the only visible piece of furniture. The windows were uncovered, no light fixtures hung from the ceiling, not a single potted plant decorated the floor. Yet, with the hundreds of candles, Augie’s place was warm and inviting and romantic.
She took three steps inside. “This isn’t fair, damn you.”
“Not very neighborly,” said a voice behind her.
She spun around. “August.”
He was dressed in black slacks and a black turtleneck finished off by black socks. In each hand, he carried a flute of champagne. He passed one over to her and clinked his glass with hers. “To improved neighbor relations.”
“Neighbor relations.” As she sipped, she ran her eyes up and down his figure. “You clean up real good.”
He motioned toward her black slip dress with his flute. “Slinky. You changed for me.”
“No, I didn’t,” she said defensively. Then, with a smile: “Yes, I did.”
“We both picked black. Instead of that opposites-attract thing, we’re onto that matchy-matchy thing.” He looked down at her feet. “And we’re both shoeless.”
She looked down at her own naked legs and feet. “I thought I’d one-up you in the barefoot department. Plus, my feet are killing me.” She sipped and glanced around the room. “Your mood lighting is amazing, Augie. But where’s the furniture?”
“I keep scaring away decorators,” he said.
“I wonder why.” She took a drink and moved toward the piano. “You were right about tonight.”
He followed her, snatching a magnum of champagne off the kitchen island as he went. “Right about what?”
Running an index finger across the keys, she said: “Needs tuning.”
He tipped back his glass and drained it. “Don’t play much anymore.”
She looked at her fingertip. “Don’t clean much, either.”
“Maid’s on vacation.” He stepped next to her, refilled his glass, and topped off hers. “Right about what?”
Bernadette took a long drink and shuddered at the coldness of it. “Being careful.”
“The wake,” he said. “What happened?” “You don’t want to know.” She swallowed and shuddered again. “Tell me,” he insisted.
She raised her glass toward him. “Maybe after a few more of these.”
She was on her back in his bed, a massive four-poster—the only furniture in the cavernous master suite. Her small figure was drowning in the sea of down blankets and down pillows and satiny sheets. Savoring the sinking sensation, she snuggled deeper under the covers.
Standing by the side of the bed, he looked down at her and asked: “Are you sure about this? You don’t know me.”
His words seemed to be out of sync with the movement of his lips, as if he were an actor in a foreign movie mouthing dubbed dialogue. She’d had way too much champagne. She didn’t care. “I’m sure.”
He peeled off his turtleneck, stepped out of his slacks and boxers. She drank in his body while candles danced on the floor behind him. He was dark and muscled, with a broad chest that was surprisingly smooth, almost hairless.
“I want to see you.” With one hand, he yanked off the top covers. His eyes went to the two gold bands resting against her skin. “What’s that on your necklace?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
He reached down and clamped one large hand over the waist of her panties. “You won’t need these.” In one swift, brutal motion, he pulled them down and off and dropped them to the floor. He fell on top of her and forced her thighs apart with his knees. She reached down to guide him inside her, but he pushed her hand aside. “Not yet,” he breathed in her ear. He wrapped his left hand over her right wrist and brought her arm up over her head, pinning her against the mattress. With his right hand, he kneaded her breasts.
She arched her back, pressing her pelvis into his. “Please.”
“I want you to wait.”
“You’re mean,” she whispered sleepily, drunkenly.
He laughed and moved his mouth to her nipples. “You taste like sugar,” he murmured, his words echoing as if he’d uttered them in a cave or a canyon or their building’s hallway.
Sugar…sugar…sugar.
His breath and his skin were cold, but moisture beaded his forehead. A drop of perspiration rolled down the side of his face and fell between her breasts. With her free hand, she reached down to grab the comforter and pull it over their bodies, but she couldn’t find the cover. “I’m freezing.”
“I’ll warm you.”
“Hurry.”
When he finally entered her, she was wet and ready for him. Still, she gasped. He slowed his thrusts and said: “I’m hurting you.”
“Yes,” she said, wrapping her legs around his hips. “It’s good.”
In the candlelight, she heard his rock music pounding a beat. At the same time, she swore she heard her own favorite singer crooning somewhere distant. Aerosmith and Sinatra, a strange combination. Jack Daniel’s with a martini chaser.
It was the middle of the night when she rolled out of his bed. The candles on the bedroom floor had gone out. In the dark, she tried to feel around the massive bed for him so she could give him a good-night kiss, but her hands became lost in the piles of pillows and humps of down. She gave up and turned around to feel around the floor for her dress and panties. She gathered them in her arms and started to tiptoe out of his bedroom. The door was open to the main living area, and she could see a faint glow. A few candles remained lit out there. She’d douse them before leaving, so the place wouldn’t go up in flames.
In the blackness of the bedroom, a muscular arm snaked around her midriff. “Come back to my bed.”
“I have to get up early,” she whispered, hugging her clothing to her naked front.
“I don’t care.” He kissed the side of her neck and pressed his front against her back as his hands moved under her bundle and cupped her breasts. “Stay.”
She could feel his erection. “You don’t play fair, and I really have to go.”
“Just a little longer. Lie with me a little longer. Please.”
The tone of his voice stabbed her heart. He sounded as lonely and hungry as she could be on her worst nights. She unfolded her arms and let her clothes drop to the floor. He scooped her up. She twined her arms around his neck as he carried her back to bed. “Don’t let me fall asleep again. I have to wake up in my own bed.”
“I’ll carry you there myself,” he said, setting her down amid the blankets and pillows and tangled sheets.
Twenty-five
A hangover. She hadn’t had one of those in a while. At least Augie had made good on his promise and deposited her in her own bed. She crawled out of it Wednesday morning with throbbing temples and a queasy stomach. With her eyes half shut, she hobbled downstairs and into the bathroom.
A hot shower took the edge off her headache, but did nothing to dilute the memory of his hands and mouth all over her. She prayed she hadn’t made a horrible mistake by sleeping with him. In the same instant, she hoped it wouldn’t be the last time. He’d been an amazing lover.
She reluctantly pulled on some work clothes—navy-blue slacks and a white blouse topped by a navy blazer—and headed out the door. She checked her watch as she hustled down the sidewalk and saw it was not quite seven-thirty. She had time to grab
a coffee and a pastry on her way to the cellar.
While she stood in line at the café, she thought about her game plan for work. No way in hell was she going to tell her boss she’d been followed out to her car during the wake. Nothing good would come of it, Bernadette concluded. He’d be furious with her over something, be it failing to identify the suspect at the visitation, trying to apprehend the guy solo, or letting the killer get away from her.
Garcia was leaning against the edge of her desk waiting for her, one of her FBI commendations in his hand. He offered her a dry greeting as she walked through the office door. “Good afternoon, Agent Saint Clare.”
She had her coffee cup in one hand and a morsel of Danish in the other. She didn’t know what to do with the pastry except pop it her mouth and swallow. After taking a sip of coffee to wash it down, she coughed and sputtered a greeting: “Hey.”
His face wearing the disgusted expression of someone who’d just discovered a hair in his soup, Garcia held up the plaque with two fingers. “Found this in the garbage.”
“My mistake.” She took another sip of coffee and thought: Jesus. He digs through my trash. Plus, he said “Agent Saint Clare.” Gonna be a bad day in the basement.
“Found some other mistakes in the trash.” He set the award down on her desk. “How’d it go last night? See anyone you liked?”
The way he’d said see—she’d pretend she didn’t catch the dig. Dropping her coffee cup into a wastebasket, she said evenly: “Didn’t observe anyone suspicious.”
“The husband?”
“Not our man.”
He suddenly noticed her empty hands. “Where’re those files I dropped off at your place?”
“On my kitchen table. Was gonna go through them at home after I straightened up in here.”
“Let me see if I got this right. You were gonna fix up the office and then go home to do your office work?”
Blind Spot Page 14