Текст книги "Blind Rage"

Автор книги: Terri Persons

Соавторы: Terri Persons
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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

Chapter 23

EARLY SATURDAY MORNING, the door to the professor’s attached garage lifted with a metallic groan, causing Thorsson and his partner to bolt upright in the front seat of their van. Peering into the bowels of the garage from their parking spot across the street, the agents saw a young woman in a pea coat and baggy jeans exit through a service door and slide into the front passenger seat of a Saab sedan. A purse was slung over her shoulder, and a paper grocery bag was in her arms. Ten seconds later, Wakefielder walked out of the service door, went over to the driver’s side of the sedan, and got behind the wheel. The Saab started up with a smoky cough and backed out of the garage. After a stall in the middle of the street—during which the two agents flattened themselves on the bench of the dry cleaner’s van—the Saab restarted and chugged south down the street.

Thorsson called Garcia at home while his partner—a young, freckled redhead who always looked startled—turned on the van’s engine and steered out of their parking spot.

“He’s on the move,” Thorsson said into his cell. “The woman’s with him. She’s carrying something in a sack.”

“Probably the puke clothes,” Garcia said. “Where are they right now? In what direction are they headed?”

A pause while Thorsson got his bearings. “They just turned onto Cleveland. Heading south.”

“Keep me apprised. Any big moves, give me a call immediately. Need help tailing them?”

Thorsson said, “Red and I have it under control, sir.”

“The kid’s behind the wheel?”

“He’s from these parts, sir.”

“I know. Good. That’s good.”

Thorsson, with great reluctance in his voice, asked, “Should I give Agent Saint Clare the heads-up?”

“I’ll do it,” said Garcia. “You two just keep your eyes on the prize.”

Thorsson closed his phone and snarled, “That Breast Fed is leading Garcia around by the short hairs.”

As he navigated the dry-cleaning van, Red kept the Saab at a distance of about a block. “Why do you say that?”

“She’s got him convinced that there’s a serial killer running around. What a bunch of bullshit. I hope she falls on her ass on this one. Right on her bony ass.”

“I think she’s got a nice ass, actually,” said Red.

“I’m not talking to you for the rest of the day,” said Thorsson.

BERNADETTE FLOPPED onto her stomach, reached over to her night-stand, and knocked the ringing object to the floor. She felt as if she’d just fallen asleep. Stretching her arm down, she fumbled around on the floor until her fingers found the phone. “What?” she croaked into the cell.

“Wakefielder and the girl are on the move. Thorsson just called it in.”

Kicking off the covers, Bernadette jumped out of bed and scooped her jeans off the floor. “Where’re they headed?”

“South on Cleveland.”

She danced into her jeans while cradling the phone between her ear and her shoulder. “Could be they’re going to the Minneapolis campus. If she’s a student, she might live around there.”

“Aren’t they taking a roundabout way?”

She stepped into her sneakers. “Yes and no. They’d go from Cleveland to Raymond to University Avenue. It works, especially if she lives close to the St. Paul border.”

“What do you want to do?”

She picked a sweatshirt up off the floor, grabbed her gun, and started spiraling down the stairs. “Did you say Thorsson is doing the tailing?”

“The kid is driving.”

“There’s some hope we won’t lose them, then.”

“Yeah. My thoughts.”

“I’m going to tool on over to the east bank,” she said. “I might luck out and get in on the fun.”

“Stay in contact.”

BERNADETTE HAD GUESSED the professor’s path exactly. The Saab went along Cleveland Avenue and followed the fork onto Raymond Avenue. The tree-lined residential area gave way to a stretch of neighborhood storefront businesses. Thorsson ogled a coffee shop as they rolled past it and ran his tongue over his top lip. “I’d love a cup of java.”

“Then you’d have to pee,” said Red.

“I got an empty pop bottle in back.”

Wakefielder, in the right lane, braked at a red light at University. A Saturn compact in the right lane separated the van from its target. When the Saab’s turn signal started flashing, Thorsson called Garcia. “We’re on Raymond at University, and he’s preparing to take a right.”

“The east bank of the U is a couple of miles from there,” Garcia told him. “Saint Clare’s thinking that’s where they’re headed. She’s on her way over.”

Silence on Thorsson’s end. Then: “We’ll be glad for the help, sir.”

The light turned green, and the Saab hung a right. The Saturn did the same, and the van followed. “Here we go. We’re on University heading toward the Minneapolis border.”

“I’m gonna call Saint Clare and update her,” said Garcia.

“You do that, sir.” Thorsson closed his phone and growled, “That little witch.”

Red gave his partner a quick sideways glance and kept driving. For a Saturday morning, traffic was heavy. At a red light, Red propped his elbow on the van’s door and rested the side of his head in his hand. “I’m starving.”

“Me, too. I could go for a Whopper. Let’s hit a Burger King after we turn over the baby-sitting duties.”

Red checked his watch. “That’s hours away.”

“Christ. I feel like we’ve been on the road for a week.” Thorsson glared past the Saturn at the Saab. “What has he been doing? Ten under the limit?”

“He’s had traffic in front of him,” said Red.

After the light turned green, the Saab, the Saturn, and the van paraded through the intersection. The Saturn swerved into the left lane and hung a left, vanishing down a side street. Trying to keep his distance, the agent slowed to a crawl. An Audi pulling out of an office building’s parking lot slipped between the Saab and the van. To be safe, Red hung back a little more and let another car join the motorcade.

“Careful,” cautioned Thorsson.

“I know what I’m doing,” said his partner.

A couple of blocks to the Minneapolis border, the agents saw the Saab ease to the curb and stop in front of a duplex. “Now what?” wondered Thorsson.

Hanging back half a block, the van pulled to the curb. There were no other vehicles parked between them and the Saab. Red fished a clipboard out from under the driver’s seat while his partner reached behind and grabbed a shirt encased in dry cleaner’s plastic.

Red asked, “Should we call Garcia back so he can call Saint Clare?”

Thorsson said, “We don’t need her holding our dicks for us.”

“I guess we could wait and see what’s up first.”

The Saab’s front passenger and driver’s doors popped open in unison. Wakefielder got out, went around the car, and offered his hand to the girl. Ignoring his gesture, she got out of the car and headed for the front door of the duplex, weaving a bit while she walked. The professor reached inside the Saab, took out the paper bag, and followed the girl, standing at her elbow while she foraged in her purse. She dropped the purse, and the professor picked it up. She snatched it out of his hand and resumed her digging, swaying while she did so.

“Is she drunk or what?” asked Red.

“Fucking early for that shit,” said Thorsson.

She finally produced a key, worked the lock and knob, and pushed the door open. She ripped the bag from the professor’s hand, went inside, and slammed the door in his face.

Even from half a block away, the agents could see the tension. “Trouble in paradise,” said Thorsson.

Red craned his neck while scratching on the clipboard. “I got the address.”

“Good,” said Thorsson.

Wakefielder got back into the Saab and started it up.

“Do we stay with her or go after him?” asked Red.

“We call the boss,” said Thorsson, tossing the dry cleaning behind him and picking up his phone.

“He’s pulling away,” said Red.

“Don’t move,” said Thorsson, punching his cell.

Wakefielder did a U-turn in the middle of University Avenue, cutting in front of two eastbound cars. The drivers laid on the horns. Red didn’t like the aggressive move. “Do you think he saw us?”

“He didn’t see shit. He just drives like a putz.”

“What if we lose him?” Red asked worriedly.

“We can catch up.”

Garcia answered after one ring. “What?”

“Girl got dropped off at home.” Thorsson took the clipboard out of his partner’s hand and gave Garcia the address. “This might be a good time to pump her for information.”

“What makes you say that?” asked Garcia.

Thorsson said authoritatively: “She had a fight with the man. Slammed the door in his face. On top of that, she might have had a couple. Tongue should be good and loose.”

Garcia asked, “Booze this early? You sure?”

“She was swaying and dropping her belongings.” Thorsson cleared his throat. “Uh … I’d be willing to go inside and talk to her.”

“Saint Clare’s in the neighborhood, and I’m thinking she’s going to want to visit with the young lady. Besides, you’re tailing the professor.” Garcia paused. “You are still on him, aren’t you?”

“Like white on rice, sir.” Thorsson looked at his partner and thumbed over his shoulder.

Shaking his head with worry, Red checked his rearview mirror and looked through his windshield. He pulled out of their parking spot and did his own U-turn in the middle of University Avenue. He looked up ahead. Lots of traffic but no Saab.

Seeing what his partner was seeing, Thorsson ran a hand over the top of his head. “Pardon me for asking, sir, but are you sure we should bother with surveillance the whole weekend? How certain are we that this is the right guy? That’s a lot of man-hours based on a hunch.”

“Agent Saint Clare’s got more than a hunch, Agent Thorsson,” Garcia said brusquely.

“Yes, sir,” said Thorsson, his face knotted with anxiety.

“Well, nice work, Greg,” said Garcia. “Pass it on to Red. I know it wasn’t the most exciting assignment.”

Thorsson rubbed his face with his free hand. “Yes, sir.”

Garcia said, “Hang in there. Your relief should be showing up at noon.”

Thorsson closed his phone and turned on his partner. “Fuck! How did you lose him?”

Red came up on a minivan in the left lane and stopped at a light. He veered into the right lane and blew through the intersection, barely missing a station wagon crossing in front of him. A cacophony of horns followed. “It’s your fault. You told me to wait.”

“You know what you’re doing, right? That’s what you told me, you little shit.”

Weaving in and out of traffic, the frenetic delivery van finally reached Raymond, where it took a screeching left. “He’s gotta be back home.”

“He’d better be home,” snarled Thorsson.

“What if he’s not?” squeaked Red.

“Then you’re fucked, my friend.”

SPEEDING BACK to University Grove, the two agents didn’t hear the wails of a police car and a paramedic rig coming down University Avenue from the west.

The squad and the rig took a hard left and screeched into the duplex’s driveway. Ten seconds later, Bernadette pulled up in front of the building. They’d all arrived too late. Animal Print Girl—Zoe Cameron to her family and friends—was already dead.

Chapter 24

“WHAT’S HE DOING right now? find out!”

“Calm down, Cat. You’re going to pop a vein.” Garcia punched a number into his phone. “You know, Greg and the kid have been on top of him the entire time. They’ve been real good about calling in.”

“Find out.”

Garcia held up his hand to silence her while he spoke into his cell. “Give me the latest on Wakefielder … Good … Good … Don’t let him out of your sight.” Garcia closed his phone.

“Well?”

“Raking leaves in his front yard.”

“Of course he’s raking leaves.” She motioned toward the house with a chop of her hand. “This is the last thing he’d do if he were guilty. The last thing!”

The pair stood on the front lawn of the duplex. Behind them, Minneapolis cops moved in and out of the house like a blue swarm. Not a single reporter or photographer pestered them. When private citizens in private homes commit certain acts, they don’t make the news.

“He just had a federal agent harass him at work,” she said. “So why would a smart man—a Harvard guy, for chrissake—turn around and kill someone the very next day?”

“Because it’s the last thing you’d expect him to do?” Garcia offered.

“He wasn’t even in the city limits.” She flapped an arm toward the east. “He was in St. Paul, with an agent and a half watching his ass.”

“Perfect alibi,” said Garcia.

She nodded. “Brilliant.”

“So how does he do it from across the city line?”

Bernadette threw up her hands. “I don’t know. Talks her into it and gives her something to take. Maybe he slips her something before driving her home.”

“ME will do a tox screen, but you saw her. She was literally starving herself. She had a death wish.”

“If it turns out she completely did it to herself, then he’s still culpable,” said Bernadette. “He should have taken her to a hospital instead of dumping her at the door. Even that moron Thorsson noticed she was falling down. Wakefielder should have forced her into treatment.”

“You heard the roommate. Been there. Done that. Didn’t stick.”

The roommate, a red-eyed young man sitting in the back of one of the squads, was hugging his knees up to his chest and rocking. He told Bernadette that he’d been in the bathroom getting ready for his job at a shoe store when he’d heard a door open and someone moving around inside the duplex. Figuring it was Cameron, he left the bathroom to touch base. The girl’s bedroom door was closed. When he hollered and knocked and got no response, he pushed inside and found Cameron on her back on the floor.

Bernadette watched while a crew from the Hennepin County ME’s office carried a gurney topped by a body bag out of the house. “This makes me sick.”

“Let’s think this through,” said Garcia, walking back and forth in front of her with his hands buried in the pockets of his trench. “Alice Bergerman signs up for his Madness in Lit, drops after the first day of class, goes into the river the same month, making her our third victim. Our June drowning.”

Bernadette said, “Kyra Klein is in his Poetry of Suicide course for a month or so. She’s found dead in her own tub Thursday morning. Probably killed Wednesday night. Victim eight.”

Garcia tipped his head toward the ME wagon. “Number nine never had him in class. They went out a couple of times, according to the roomie.”

“So three murder victims with ties to Wakefielder.”

“One murder victim,” corrected Garcia. “Bergerman was ruled a suicide and—”

“It wasn’t a suicide, and you know it.”

Garcia pulled his hands out of his pockets and folded his arms in front of him.

“And today’s death is looking like it was caused by an accidental or intentional OD, or possibly by the eating disorder of the month.”

“These are murders made to look like suicides,” she said as the wagon’s door slammed after the body bag was loaded. “And this last one … God … this is evil genius.”

“It’s entirely possible he’s simply guilty of surrounding himself with attractive train wrecks. Stupid, but not criminal.”

“To have your young, pretty, skinny ex-girlfriend croak the day after a federal agent questions you about the murders of young, pretty, skinny girls is …”

“Really bad luck?”

“Wakefielder or someone around him is doing this. There’s an … intersection or a—a connection that we’re missing.”

A crime scene investigator for the Minneapolis PD came up to the two agents with an armload of pill bottles. He held up the evidence bags. “Found these in her purse. Some empty, some half-empty.”

Bernadette tore the bags out of his hands.

“Whose meds?” asked Garcia while Bernadette examined the labels through the plastic.

“A bunch are hers, and a couple she pilfered from the roommate.”

Garcia asked, “If this is what did it, when would she have downed them?”

“Thing is, you don’t swallow a handful of pills and then immediately keel over dead.”

“I realize that,” said Garcia. “Ballpark it.”

“Depends on the dosage and the meds and a whole lot of other factors. I see some psychiatric meds in there. Potent stuff. They were prescribed by a—

“Dr. Luke VonHader,” said Bernadette, looking up from the bags.

“Whoa,” said Garcia.

“There’s an interesting intersection.” She handed the bottles back to the crime scene guy. “Thanks.”

“Sure.” The guy frowned and finished the trek to his van.

Garcia smiled grimly at Bernadette. “Are they working in tandem? How do they know each other?”

“They both went to Harvard.”

“So did a lot of evil geniuses.”

“There’s a connection of some sort. I’ve gotta get one of them to start talking.”

“Whose balls you gonna bust first?”

“The shrink is way too cool, but Wakefielder was nervous when I questioned him yesterday.”

“Need some help?”

“I’d love some,” she said. “This case is making my head hurt.”

Garcia’s cell rang, and he pulled it out of his trench. “Yeah?”

Bernadette scrutinized his face. It was turning a color she’d never before seen on a human being. Not quite purple. Eggplant?

Garcia switched the phone to his other ear. “You have got to be kidding me! How? When? For how long? Why did you wait so long before telling me?”

Bernadette didn’t like the sound of that.

“It does matter!” Garcia’s ears were starting to match his face. “It sure as hell could have been long enough!”

“Oh, no,” Bernadette breathed. An agent and a half hadn’t been on the professor’s ass the entire time after all, and now Thorsson was calling to fess up.

A pause while Garcia listened to excuses. Then: “I don’t care to hear it right now, Agent Thorsson. Save it for your report.” Garcia checked his watch. “Your relief is on the way. Try not to lose him before they get there.”

He closed his phone and drew his arm back but had second thoughts about hurling it. He calmly dropped the cell in to his trench and sighed. “Our men lost Wakefielder right after he dropped her off. They caught up with him at his house as he was pulling back into the garage.”

“That wasn’t a lot of time.”

“They had to wait a bit before he got home.”

She took a deep breath, let it out, and tried to be generous—more for the kid’s benefit than the moron’s. “No signs of a struggle in the duplex. No forced entry. She probably did OD like you said.”

Garcia wasn’t in a charitable mood. “Roommate said the back door was unlocked. Wakefielder could have circled back around to the alley, slipped inside, suffocated her, and left.”

“No one has suggested suffocation at all. There was no visible trauma to the body. No pillow found near the body. Roommate would have heard.”

“You said it yourself. The guy is smart.”

“I don’t think the fact that Greg and Red lost him for a few minutes makes a damn bit of difference.”

Garcia asked through clenched teeth: “Why are you defending these idiots?”

“The kid deserves a chance,” she said.

“Red was the driver.”

“I don’t care. Thorsson is somehow responsible.”

Garcia watched glumly as the ME wagon backed out of the driveway. “Maybe I am, too.”

“How so?”

“Thorsson volunteered to go inside and talk to her after the prof dropped her off. That’s why he lost the guy. He was thinking I’d want him to question her. Maybe if I had let him go that route …” His voice trailed off.

“Greg would have gotten inside just in time to give mouth-to-mouth to a dead woman.”

Garcia dragged his hand down his face. “My head is spinning.”

“You need some exercise.” She put her hand on his arm. “Let’s go see if the prof needs some help with the yard work.”

“He’s going to recognize me as Pizza Man and realize we’ve had him under surveillance.”

“That should jar the truth out of him.”

THE INSTANT Wakefielder spotted Bernadette stepping out of her truck, he dropped his rake. Instead of dashing into his own home, however, he calmly walked across his neighbor’s yard, went up the front steps, and knocked. Garcia met up with Bernadette and both stood on the sidewalk eyeing the neighbor’s house.

“Classic colonial,” Bernadette observed. “Nice.”

The neighbor’s door popped open and the professor went inside.

“Where does he think he’s going?” Garcia asked.

“Maybe he’s gonna get someone to beat us up.”

“Should we go after him?” Garcia wondered.

“I’d rather get inside his house.”

“What if he stays inside the neighbor’s place?”

Before she could respond, they saw the professor exit the classic colonial and thump down the steps. A tall, gaunt, bearded man was right behind him. Both wore L. L. Bean’s version of weekend work duds: corduroy pants and earth-toned turtlenecks under cable-knit cardigans. Wakefielder wore a barn coat over his sweater while his neighbor finished his ensemble with a plaid wool vest.

Wakefielder walked back to the leaf pile in the center of his yard and stood facing the agents, his feet planted square with his shoulders. His plaid pal stood next to him, burying his hands in the front pockets of the vest.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Wakefielder,” Bernadette said, as she and Garcia walked into the yard. “I’ve brought Assistant Special Agent in Charge Anthony Garcia.”

Wakefielder turned his head to his neighbor. “And I’ve brought Professor Nathaniel C. Selwyn. He’s an expert in criminal law, criminal procedure, and criminal evidence.”

“I’m familiar,” Garcia said tightly as he and Selwyn exchanged hard stares.

Bernadette said, “We’d like to talk about Zoe.”

“How do you know Zoe?” asked Wakefielder. “What does she—”

“Don’t say another word, Finlay,” said the law prof, putting his hand on Wakefielder’s shoulder.

“She’s dead,” said Garcia. “Died this morning, shortly after you dropped her at home.”

“No, that’s not … I just saw her,” Wakefielder stammered. He looked from Garcia to Bernadette, as if seeking confirmation from her.

Bernadette nodded. “Her roommate found her dead. Do you know anything about that?”

“Don’t answer that!” Selwyn barked.

Wakefielder zeroed in on Garcia’s face. “Nate, this gentleman came to my door at two o’clock this morning—two o’clock—under the pretense of delivering a pizza.”

“I’m not surprised,” said Selwyn. “The Minneapolis Division has a reputation for such …”

“Such what?” snapped Garcia, who took a step toward Selwyn.

“Professor Wakefielder, aren’t you hearing us?” asked Bernadette. “Your former girlfriend is dead.”

“This is another ruse, Finlay,” said the law prof, pulling Wakefielder backward by the elbow. “Don’t respond. Let’s go in the house.”

With Selwyn in the lead, the two neighbors turned their backs on the agents, marched across the yard, and went up the Tudor’s front steps. The men disappeared inside, the door slamming hard after them.

“Fuck,” Garcia spat, his eyes burning a hole in the Tudor’s front door. “Of all the people for him to hide behind.”

“You’ve crossed swords with Selwyn, I take it.”

Garcia turned and started back for the cars. “Let’s go.”

“That’s it?” she asked, going after him.

“Let’s get some lunch,” he grumbled.

OVER SOUP and sandwiches at a café in the neighborhood, Garcia told her about Selwyn.

“The bastard conducts seminars for other attorneys so they can beat us.” Garcia picked up his roast beef on a Kaiser, chomped it into a half moon, chewed twice, and swallowed.

“He teaches them how to successfully defend someone against federal charges.” Bernadette snipped off the corner of her grilled cheese sandwich and chewed.

Garcia raised his sandwich to his mouth. “Yeah.”

“Good for him.” She lifted her spoon and sipped some tomato soup.

“Not good for him.” He took another bite of his roast beef.

Bernadette dabbed at the corners of her mouth with a napkin. “Citizens have a right to—”

“I was a speaker at one of his bullshit seminars,” said Garcia. “Afterward I took questions.”

“What’d they do, rip you a new one?” she asked, and took another bite of grilled cheese.

“It was a feeding frenzy,” he said. “They took off on me about the fingerprint screwup in that Portland terrorist case and the legality of that Russian computer crimes sting.”

“Old news,” she said, and took a sip of water.

“They went on and on about warrantless wiretapping.”

“That’s to be expected.”

“They even bitched about the IRS,” he said.

“They heard the word federal and went after you.”

“Like a pack of dogs.”

“Selwyn didn’t warn you?”

“He told me to expect questions about—I don’t know—the increase in bank robberies across the Midwest or something.”

“He set you up.”

Garcia nodded and shoved the last wedge of roast beef into his mouth.

“What about the surveillance?” she asked.

He swallowed and wiped his mouth. “Now he knows we’re watching him, so it won’t do any good. Plus with that Selwyn on his side and living right next door—”

“We’d better think of another way to get at Wakefielder.”

“What did you think of Wakefielder’s reaction, or lack thereof, to the news his ex was dead?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “If he did do it, you’d think he’d be smart enough to act grief-stricken.”

“Could be he’s not good with the dramatics and decided he couldn’t pull them off,” Garcia suggested. “Pretending he didn’t believe us was more in his range.”

They heard ringing coming from the coats piled next to her on the restaurant bench. She set down her spoon, went into her jacket pocket, and produced her cell. Opened it.

“Agent Saint Clare? This is Matthew VonHader.”

She frowned for a moment, and then her eyes widened as she remembered Dr. Luke VonHader’s younger brother. “What can I do for you, Mr. VonHader?”

Garcia set down his glass and leaned across the table. “What can I do for you?” Matthew responded.

She had only been on the phone for a few seconds with this operator, and she was already losing patience. “Look, if you’re calling to—”

Matthew: “I have some … information I’d like to share.”

“What sort of information?” she asked while smiling at Garcia.

Matthew said, “Over dinner.”

“What sort of information?” she repeated.

“Dinner tonight. Seven o’clock,” said Matthew.

“Dinner? I’d like to know what this is about first.” She watched Garcia. He looked ready to jump out of the booth.

Matthew said, “Dinner, or I’m hanging up.”

He sounded like a brat threatening to hold his breath. She rolled her eyes and asked, “Where?”

“Downtown St. Paul,” he said, and gave her the name and address of the restaurant.

The trendy eatery was in walking distance from her office. She’d passed it a hundred times but had never set foot inside. “I know the place.”

“Seven o’clock,” Matthew repeated.

“Right.” Shaking her head with wonder, she closed the phone.

“The shrink?” Garcia asked.

“His younger brother, Matt. I met him at the doc’s office. He wants me to meet him for dinner downtown. Seven tonight. He has ‘information.’”

The waitress came by with the check, and Garcia picked it up. Dug out his wallet and opened it. “Want me to go with you?”

“You might scare him off.”

He set some bills on the table. “I could sit at the bar and keep an eye on you.”

Now Garcia was sounding weird. “What is he going to do, attack me with the pepper mill?”

“I really think I should—”

“Let me deal with this,” she said, sliding from the bench with their outerwear in her arms. Garcia got out, and she handed him his coat.

“What good is the little brother?”

“Could be he knows about Luke’s relationship with Wakefielder, or maybe he can tell me something about Klein and Cameron. He’s real talkative. The receptionist whisked him away before his mouth really got going yesterday.”

“This Matt isn’t hitting on you, is he? That wouldn’t be too smart.”

“I don’t think he’s a Harvard man. He strikes me as a mimbo.”

Garcia’s brows knitted with confusion.

“That’s a male bimbo.”

“Nice. Well, call me when you’re done with him.”

“I’ll call you,” she said, and they both headed for the door.