Текст книги "Blind Rage"

Автор книги: Terri Persons

Соавторы: Terri Persons
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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

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.”

“What are you hiding, Matthew?”

“Hiding? Give me a break.” He pulled the collar of his robe tighter. “You come banging on my door at the crack of dawn on a Sunday, rousing me from the shower. I have a hangover. I have a guest I need to expel. I apologize if I’m not prepared to ask you inside and make you a plate of waffles.”

“This won’t take long.”

“I’ll talk to my brother about the files today. If you want something more from me, call me at a more civilized hour. I’d be happy to meet for drinks. I’m just not ready for you at present.” Dripping blond bangs fell across his forehead, and he combed them back. “Believe it or not, I am not a creature of the daylight.”

“Matthew—”

“We’re finished,” he said, turning around and opening the door.

“I don’t have your phone number,” she said after him.

“Right,” he said dryly. He disappeared inside, slamming the door in her face.

She went down the dock, meeting Garcia as he hopped off the deck of the Good Enuf. “What did he say?” asked Garcia.

The two of them walked side by side. “Not much. The crazy girlfriend is still there. I heard her thumping around. He didn’t want to let me in.”

“You think he hurt her?”

Bernadette grinned crookedly. “I think she beat him up.”

“Think he’s the one who pushed you in?”

They stepped off the dock and headed up the stairs. “He didn’t flinch once. Didn’t seem shocked or pissed to see me alive. He was aggravated to be bothered so early in the morning. He had a hangover, but so do I.”

“Did he lawyer up?”

“Hardly. He said I could call him later for drinks.”

Garcia opened the gate and held it for her. “Was he making a pass at you?”

She stood on the sidewalk while Garcia closed the gate. “I think Matthew is one of those men who can’t help himself. He probably flirts while he’s at church. Stands too close to women while riding the elevator. Peeks down blouses. It’s like breathing to him.”

They crossed the street and walked toward the parking lot. “Is the serial flirt a serial killer?”

“I’m not sure anymore. I’m not sure he’s the one who knocked me in. Not sure he’s the murderer.” They stopped and stood in front of her truck. As she rubbed her throbbing forehead with the tips of her fingers, an idea pushed past the hangover. “I just thought of something.”

“What?”

“Matthew got my number after snatching my card from his brother’s receptionist. What if the receptionist told Luke that his little brother was having dinner with me?”

“The doc goes to the restaurant to stop Matthew from flapping his lips. He gets there just in time to see Little Brother leave. Watches you tail Little Brother …”

“Damn,” she said, leaning against the side of her truck. “I’m going to head on over to the doc’s house right now.”

“Want some company?”

“He doesn’t hang out on the river. He lives in a nice house on Summit. He has neighbors all around him, and it’s a Sunday morning. I’ll be fine,” she said. “Besides, don’t you have something better to do?”

He checked his watch. “Actually, I could still make morning mass. Care to—”

“Say a prayer for me.” She turned and opened her truck door.

Chapter 30

SUMMIT AVENUE, ONE of the most celebrated streets in the Twin Cities. The boulevard extended nearly five miles, anchored at the east end by the towering copper dome of the Cathedral of St. Paul and at the west end by the University of St. Thomas. In between the two Catholic institutions ran the longest remaining stretch of residential Victorian architecture in the country. The massive homes had wraparound porches, expansive lawns, carriage houses instead of garages, ballrooms in addition to family rooms, swimming pools in their basements, and gazebos in their backyards. The wealthy and the powerful—lumber barons and railroad tycoons and bankers and judges—had built these homes. Early on in his writing career, F. Scott Fitzgerald had lived on the street in a brownstone row house. The Minnesota governor’s residence was on Summit, as was the opulent mansion built by James J. Hill, founder of the Great Northern Railroad.

Bernadette’s head snapped back and forth as she took in the scenery while driving west along the avenue. She braked at a red light and used the stop as an opportunity to double-check the address. Glancing up from the note, she saw that it was starting to drizzle and clicked on the truck’s wipers. Even through the rain and with a lot of the leaves already down, the tree-lined street was stunning in the fall. The oranges and yellows and reds seemed more vibrant when serving as a backdrop to the magnificent homes.

The light turned green, and she accelerated, driving another mile. She hung a right, drove a block, and pulled over to the curb to leave the Ranger on the side street. The doc’s house was a couple of blocks away. Through the windshield, she looked up at the gray sky. She reached under the driver’s seat and took out her umbrella.

Hopping out of the truck, Bernadette paused to inhale the chilly autumn air. Someone was burning wood in a fireplace. Opening her umbrella, she began her short hike. She stopped at the corner and waited for a break in the traffic. While she crossed, a gust blew against her back and almost took the umbrella out of her hands. Tightening her hold on the handle, she quickened her pace.

THROUGH THE DOWNPOUR, Bernadette squinted at the address over the front door. She looked down at the slip of paper again. This was the right place.

She didn’t know the psychiatric profession could be so lucrative. The mansion had a screened porch that extended across the front and wrapped around one side. A black wrought-iron fence twice her height surrounded the place, giving it the air of a fortress. The home itself was constructed of red sandstone, each rugged block the size of the hood of a Volkswagen Beetle. On each side of the wide steps leading up to the front door was a marble lion, sitting at attention like a guard dog.

Stuffing the scrap of paper in her coat pocket, Bernadette pushed open the front gate. The porch was crowded with statues, probably placed inside for storage before winter. There were robed women—with one or both breasts exposed—and a muscular man in a toga. A terracotta Buddha was biding his time next to a painted statue of the Virgin Mary. All the VonHaders had to do was put out a bowl of candy and the porch would be a perfect haunted house for Halloween.

Urns filled with topiaries stood on each side of the entrance to the house, and a wreath of dried flowers dotted with minipumpkins hung from the door itself. To the left of the door, mounted up high near the ceiling, was a camera. If the VonHaders were like most homeowners, they’d installed a security system but stopped using it after the first month or two. She scrutinized the tall windows looking out onto the porch and was disappointed that they were hung with lace curtains dense enough to keep her from seeing inside. She closed her umbrella, stepped up to the door, and pressed the doorbell. She waited and pushed it again.

Hearing a deadbolt being turned on the other side of the door, she braced herself. He was going to be furious that she’d come to his home, and on a Sunday morning to boot.

He opened the door, his figure blocking the entire entryway. He was dressed in a gray jogging suit and coordinating sneakers. The outfit probably cost more than her work suit, she thought ruefully. The doctor looked past her at the rain coming down in sheets. “Guess I’ll have to postpone my run.”

He opened the door wider and took a step back. “Come inside, Agent Saint Clare.”

She propped her umbrella against the porch wall. “Matt told you to look out for me.”

“Yes, he did.”

As she stepped over the threshold, Bernadette glanced up at him. He was tall and trim, with a runner’s physique. She hadn’t noticed that in the office, under his stuffy suit.

“Cold?” he asked, closing the door behind her.

Her attention went back to the door as she heard him activate the deadbolt. “A little.”

“Let’s sit in the parlor,” he said. “I have a decent fire going this morning.”

“Thank you for seeing me without an appointment,” she said dryly.

“I didn’t think I had a choice,” he said.

She trailed after him as he led her down the long foyer. She saw an open staircase leading to the second story. “Beautiful home.”

“My parents left it to me.”

“Lucky you.” As she followed him to a room on the left, an Oriental carpet cushioned her feet. Walking deeper inside, she got a full view of all the pricey-looking furniture.

“Please,” he said, motioning toward a couch parked on one side of the fireplace.

She lowered herself onto the sofa. “Thank you.”

He extended his hands. “I could take your wrap and gloves.”

“Maybe after I warm up.”

“May I bring you something to drink?”

He was acting way too civilly. That bastard Matthew’s call had given his brother just enough time to prepare for her. “I’m fine,” she said shortly.

“I just put on a pot of fresh coffee.”

She folded her hands on her lap. “Sure. Coffee would be good.”

“Cream or sugar?”

“Black, if you please.”

“I’ll be right back,” he said.

Bernadette watched him leave the room, stood up and went to the fireplace, and held her gloved hands in front of the blaze. The fireplace opening was large enough to roast a pig. The mantel was lined with a row of old oil lamps, many with fluid in the base. Her parents had left her a pair of those lanterns. Never thinking of them as collectibles, she hung on to them for a utilitarian purpose—in case the power went out.

Turning around, she ran her eyes over the large room filled with antiques. Tall chests with brass handles lined the walls. In addition to the couches situated on either side of the fireplace with a coffee table between them, she saw two other sofas across the room, both covered in some sort of maroon velvet. A forest of small tables took up floor space. They had marble tops and wooden tops and were round and square and rectangular. One of the tables had a silver tea set arranged on top of it. A large oak library table was pushed into a corner. She recognized the clean lines as mission style and speculated that it was an original Stickley piece. She was familiar with that furniture maker because her mother had taken her to a farm auction where some of Gustav Stickley’s pieces were up for bids.

The walls of the room were as crowded as the floor, with framed pieces of art from miniature portraits to massive landscapes. She went over to the gallery and studied a set of First Communion photos hanging side by side. The blond, dark-suited boys posing with folded hands, rosaries twined around their fingers, had to be Luke and Matthew. Bernadette’s eyes drifted to the right of the boys’ photos, where she saw a rectangle of bright wallpaper. A photo had hung there for a long time. Whose photograph had been removed?

She pulled her eyes off the gallery and continued her self-guided tour of the museum. Wandering over to a table, she picked up an enamel vase and speculated about how much it cost. “If you have to ask,” she muttered.

“That’s a highly important signed Norwegian vase, circa 1900.”

She turned around with the piece in her hands. “What makes it so important? The signed part, the Norwegian part, or the circa 1900 part?”

Luke set down a silver tray loaded with a silver coffeepot, silver creamer, and porcelain cups and saucers. “Actually, that’s a very good question. I would have to say that all three together classify it as highly important.”

Trying to imagine the price tag attached to “highly important,” Bernadette scrutinized the vase. It looked like an overgrown champagne flute and was decorated with small, dark red flowers set against light blue glass. She thought it was hideous.

“What do you think of it?” he asked as he poured a cup of coffee.

As she set the vase back down, Bernadette employed the word all Minnesotans used when trying to be nice. “It’s different.”

He handed her a cup and saucer. “Yes,” he said tiredly, “I think it’s ugly, too.”

She nodded toward the fireplace mantel. “I like the lanterns.”

“I light them at night to entertain the girls. We pretend we’re camping.”

She smiled, genuinely touched by the idea. “That’s neat.”

“Mother would be horrified. Her things were for show, not actual use.”

She sat down on one of the sofas and pretended to sip. Anyone brazen enough to try to drown an FBI agent could also try to poison one. “I wouldn’t keep things I couldn’t use.”

“As the oldest, I inherited the good and the bad—my parents’ wise moves and their mistakes—and I have to take care of all of it.” He sat across from her and took a sip of coffee. “It’s their legacy to me.”

“What about Matt? Is taking care of him part of the deal?”

“I didn’t appreciate the way you took advantage of his weaknesses. Getting him drunk.”

“He got himself drunk. He doesn’t need help from anyone in the boozing department.” She decided to bait him. “How do you know we had dinner, by the way?”

He took another sip of coffee before he answered. “He told me.”

“Or do you know because you followed us around last night?”

“Ridiculous. I have better things to do with my time than trail after my brother while he’s having one of his misadventures.”

His calm demeanor was aggravating, and she blurted her accusation. “You followed me and pushed me into the river.”

He froze with his cup halfway to his mouth. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“How? Why would I …? Where were you that I would have …?” He set the cup down with a clatter. “You followed my brother down to the river after dinner, didn’t you? You got him drunk, and when that didn’t get you anywhere, you decided to spy on him.”

“I had him under surveillance.”

“Surveillance. A government euphemism for a sleazy activity.”

“While I had him under surveillance, you shoved me into the river.”

“What do you want from us, Agent Saint Clare?”

“Where were you that night?”

He stood up. “I was going to give you those damn files this week.”

“Why the sudden change of heart?”

“I had a chance to speak with my attorney, and he advised me to give them to you.”

“Did he also advise you to try to drown me?”

“You’re crazy,” he sputtered.

“Is that your expert medical opinion, Doctor? If I were you, I’d refrain from making—”

“Get out of my house,” he interrupted.

She stood up. “Trying to kill an agent of the government is a big crime, Dr. VonHader. Big crimes get big time behind bars.”

“I’m calling my lawyer.”

“Don’t you think it’d be wiser to cooperate? Isn’t that what he advised you to do?”

“He didn’t know you were going to accuse me of attempted murder.” He pointed toward the front door.

“I can find my way,” she said.

He followed and pulled the door open. “Any additional communication to me, my brother, or my office staff must come through my attorney. There’ll be no more drunken dinner dates behind my back.”

She spun around and faced him. “What are you hiding, Doctor? Was Kyra Klein’s death the result of your malpractice, or were you involved more directly?”

His eyes widened. “What?”

“Did you murder Kyra Klein?”

“No!”

“Does the name Zoe Cameron mean anything?”

“She’s another one of my patients.”

“I guess the police haven’t contacted you yet. That’s okay. You probably already know that she died yesterday, and that in her purse they found a bottle of meds with your name on it.”

He took a step back. “I don’t believe you.”

“What about Shelby Hammond?”

“Who? That girl in the news? No! I had nothing to do with … What are you insinuating?”

“Do you like to take baths or showers, Luke?” She ran her eyes up and down his figure. “I’d say you’re a tub man. Did I peg you right?”

His face whitened, and he stood motionless with his hand on the open door.

She decided to toss one last hand grenade at him, looking for an answer to a question that her gut told her had something to do with the case. She pointed to the room they’d just left. “What’s the story on the missing portrait? Whose picture did you take down? Who’s the black sheep?”

Dr. Luke VonHader—family man, respected psychiatrist, and winner of numerous professional and civic awards—looked ready to puke on the shoes of his departing guest. He opened the door wider and said hoarsely, “Get out.”

Bernadette walked through the door and felt the breeze against her back as it slammed behind her.

THE RAIN had stopped. Maybe she’d take the rest of Sunday off and hit it hard on Monday. Checking her watch, she figured that Garcia would be back home. She felt guilty about cutting him off when he had suggested mass. She fished out her phone and called him.

“How was church?” she asked cheerfully.

“Good,” he said. “How’d it go with the doc?”

She told him about it and her plans to pick it up on Monday with more research into the doctor’s family.

“What are you doing the rest of the day?” he asked.

“Crashing with a heating pad on my back.”

“Want me to bring over some lunch?”

“I’m not up for company, Tony. My back is really sore.”

A long silence on his end. “Take care of yourself … Check in tomorrow.”

He hung up, and she closed the phone.