Текст книги "Blind Rage"

Автор книги: Terri Persons

Соавторы: Terri Persons
сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

Chapter 5

GARCIA HADN’T VISITED the cellar in a while, and Bernadette had slacked off in her filing. She went to work early Tuesday to try to straighten the office before he showed up with the paperwork from the drowning cases.

She shrugged off her coat and tossed it over the back of a chair. As she started lifting up layers of files from one of the spare desks, she heard a familiar bass voice and felt a cold draft rolling in from the hallway outside her office.

“Finally fixing up the place. Long overdue. It never looked this bad when I worked here solo.”

“Go away,” she muttered without turning around. “And close the door behind you, Ruben.”

“It’s ‘Agent Creed’ to you, missy. Keep it professional.”

She heard the door shut but knew he was on the wrong side of it. She pivoted around, a pile of folders in her arms. A tall, slender African American man with short graying hair was sitting on the office’s ancient sofa, his ankle crossed over his bony knee. She’d been using the couch to store old newspapers, and on one side of Creed was a stack of Star Tribunes and on the other side was a New York Times tower. The newspapers framed his figure like Roman columns and made him appear even more cold and imposing. She especially resented the way he always strolled in impeccably attired as if ready for work, with his dark suit and dark tie and stiff white shirt. That hint of an accent—he was a native of the South—added to his air of superiority. “Whatever you have to say, make it quick,” she told him. “I’m busy.”

He propped one elbow on the Times pile and then had second thoughts. Lifting his arm, he brushed off his jacket sleeve and folded his hands on his lap. A saw buzzed overhead, and Creed frowned at the ceiling. “What in blazes is going on up there?”

She went over to a waist-high metal file cabinet, pulled the drawer open with the tip of her shoe, and dumped her armload of folders inside it. “They’re renovating the building.”

“It’s about time,” he said.

“I guess,” she muttered, and picked up another stack of folders.

A jackhammer fired up, drowning out the saw. “How can you work with all this commotion?”

“Lots of Tylenol.” She went back to the file cabinet, dropped the folders inside the drawer, and forced it closed.

“What kind of cockamamie filing system is that?”

“I’ll straighten it out later.”

“That’s precisely the attitude that got you where you are today.” He picked up a Star Tribune and waved it at her. “You know those people you read about in the paper, the ones with those garbage houses? That’s how it starts with them. I’ll straighten it out later, they think. I’ll do the laundry tomorrow. Next thing you know—”

“Ruben … Agent Creed … I don’t have time for you today.” Her cell rang inside her coat pocket, but she didn’t want to take a call in front of her visitor. “You’d better go for a hike.”

He dropped the paper back on the stack and squared it. “You’d better answer that phone. It’s our ASAC.”

She plucked a collection of Starbucks cups off her desk and dropped them into the wastebasket. “My ASAC. He isn’t your boss. Not anymore.”

The cell stopped ringing. “You’d better pick up the next call. It’ll be him again.”

“How do you know? Are you God or something?”

“I know people who know people.”

“Why don’t you go visit those people and leave me alone?” The phone on her desk rang. She glared at Creed, but he wasn’t budging. She sat down at her desk and picked up the receiver.

Garcia: “Why didn’t you answer your cell just now?”

“Tony … uh—I—” She saw Creed grinning mischievously from his throne across the room. She turned her back to him and continued talking into the phone. “I had my hands full. I’m trying to get some office work done before you come by.”

Garcia: “Relax. I won’t be by the cellar until this afternoon, after my meeting at the cop shop.”

Swiveling her chair around, she saw Creed still sitting on the couch with his smug grin. She spun the chair back so she wouldn’t have to look at his mug. “You’ve got the files?”

“Got them.”

“Great. See you later.” She hung up.

“Are you going to brief your partner about the case to which we’ve been assigned?”

She got up from her chair and planted her hands on her hips. “Agent Creed, you are not my—” She stopped herself. If not partners, they were at least office mates, for better or worse. There was no harm in filling him in on the latest. Who was he going to tell? “You know all those college students who’ve been turning up dead in the river?”

“The ones who killed themselves?”

She wheeled a chair over to the couch and sat down across from him. “I don’t think those deaths were suicides, at least not all of them.”

“Keep talking.”

“I went out to a murder scene yesterday. Another Minneapolis drowning.”

“In the Mississippi?”

“A much smaller body of water,” said Bernadette. “A bathtub.”

“Why do you think it’s related to the river deaths? If those were indeed homicides—”

“I know, I know. Killing people in their own tubs is a much different MO.” She crossed one leg over the other and leaned forward. Surprisingly, she discovered she enjoyed hashing the case over with Creed. “Hear me out, though.”

“I’m listening,” he said.

“The victims have the same profile. They’ve all been white females attending the University of Minnesota or the University of Wisconsin. They’ve all had emotional problems …”

“Which would make it easier for a killer to pawn the murders off as suicides.”

“Exactly,” she said excitedly.

“Why the switch from the river to a tub?”

“Garcia and I discussed this,” she said. “I think the murderer is seeking a deeper thrill, a more up-close-and-personal method of execution.”

He got up from his throne and walked back and forth in front of the couch. “You’re implying this is a sexual thing.”

“What else would it be?”

“Have you researched this … what should we call it?”

“Water fetish. Drowning fetish.”

“Yes.” He stopped pacing and pointed at her. “What do you know about it?”

He seemed more alive than she’d ever seen him. It must be boring to be trapped in the world of the living, with nothing constructive to do, she thought. Maybe she could rope him into helping her. “I imagine there’re things on the Internet. I suppose I could ask Thorsson to lend a hand.”

“Thorsson. That idiot. What’s he doing in town? Don’t tell me Milwaukee dumped him on Minneapolis.”

She grinned, pleased that Creed was equally disdainful of the agent. “Because two of the deaths were in La Crosse, Milwaukee sent Thorsson and another guy to Minneapolis when the girl turned up dead in the tub.”

“In case there was a connection.”

“Exactly.”

“Leave Thorsson out of it. You don’t need Thorsson.” He planted himself at his old desk. Sitting in front of him was a dusty computer screen that hadn’t seen any action for months. “What do you want me to do?”

She thought hard before answering. When she’d first arrived at the St. Paul office, Agent Creed was gone on a scuba-diving trip. He’d come back from the Cayman Islands in a body bag. Even though they’d never partnered together while he was alive, could they work together now without killing each other? Garcia said Creed loved St. Paul and had been happily doing his work in the cellar for years. Before she could give him something to do, she had to ask a delicate question. “What can you do?”

“I beg your pardon.”

She got up and walked over to him. “Not to be insulting, but considering your current state …”

“My current state?” He reached over and punched on his monitor.

“You can use a computer?”

“I am not a caveman, missy.”

She stood at his elbow and watched him log on. “Your password still works.”

“I’ve been online since my untimely and utterly tragic demise.”

“What do you do? Play solitaire?” “Is that what you do with government equipment, Agent Saint Clare?”

“No. I look for deals on eBay.”

He looked over his shoulder at her. “I sincerely hope you’re pulling my leg.”

She put her hand on the back of his chair. “I’d like to keep going on with my cockamamie housekeeping. While I’m doing that, how about you do some poking around online?”

“What am I looking for?”

“Fetish Web sites. Fetish clubs, especially local ones.”

“Disgusting,” he said. “I’m going to need a bath myself when I’m finished.”

She went back to her own desk and sat down. “Dirty work, but somebody’s got to do it, and I’d rather that somebody be you instead of me.”

WHEN THEIR ASAC landed in the cellar with the files, Bernadette’s partner vanished from his chair. Garcia deposited the armload of paperwork on Creed’s desk and dropped down into the dead agent’s seat. Bernadette stared at her boss.

“What?” asked Garcia, glaring back.

“Nothing,” said Bernadette.

“Bullshit,” he said. “You’re looking at me like I have a juicy zit on the middle of my forehead.”

“I am not,” she said.

Garcia realized where he was sitting and jumped out of the chair. “Was he just here?”

“Who? What are you talking about?”

He walked over to her desk. “Has Ruben been around lately?”

She wasn’t sure which Garcia would find more distasteful: that she’d tapped a dead dude for assistance, or that the research she was asking Creed to conduct involved porn. Both were rather unsavory, so she decided it was best to keep mum about the whole thing. “Agent Creed’s been keeping a low profile,” she said.

Garcia shoved his hands into his coat pockets. “Have you ever thought about, uh … getting rid of him permanently? I mean, having him hanging around here must creep you out.”

She thought Garcia was the one who was spooked. “How would you suggest I send him into the light? An exorcism?”

“I don’t think the bureau would appreciate a religious ceremony of that nature being conducted in a federal building.” He glanced around the room. “Besides, I suppose we still need the strange bastard. There’re some cases he left hanging. Have you ever asked him about those, by the way?”

She decided to bait her boss. “He said he won’t help with dick until you pay him for the vacation time he still has on the books.”

“He’s dead. Why does he need vacation pay? Tell him to file a complaint with the ghost grievance committee.”

“Maybe we should get back to matters of the recently deceased,” she said. “Have you got the scarf?”

“I couldn’t put my hands on it this morning. How about I drop it off at your place tonight?”

She wondered if he was fishing for a dinner invitation, even though the previous night had ended on a tense note. “I’ve got a couple of steaks in the fridge. We could cook them up and go over the files together.”

He studied the stack he’d dumped on Creed’s desk. “You might need an extra set of eyes to get through that mountain.” His attention shifted to her face. “On the other hand, maybe you and I need to avoid after-hours—”

“A working dinner,” she said quickly. “Strictly a working dinner.”

He paused, then said slowly, “I’ll get back to you on that. Depends on how the day goes for me.”

“Let me know,” she said, and got up to transfer the files over to her desk.

Garcia headed for the door. “I’ll call you.”

She gathered the folders in her arms. “The scarf?”

“Whatever else happens, I’ll get the scarf to you,” he said, and walked out of the office.

She set the files down on her desk and lowered herself back into her chair. “Whatever else happens,” she grumbled.

“Strange bastard? Ghost grievance committee? Exorcism? Is that how you two talk about me when I’m not around, missy?” asked Creed, who’d reappeared at his computer.

“We didn’t mean anything by it.”

“What’s this about a steak at your place tonight?”

“You heard what I told Tony. A working dinner.”

“So now it’s Tony.” He peered at her over the top of his computer screen. “Be careful, Agent Saint Clare. Fraternization between supervisors and those under them is most definitely—”

She held up her hand to stop him. “I don’t need a lecture, Ruben.”

“And that nonsense about my wanting vacation pay! I never said that.”

She plucked the top file off the pile and set it down in front of her. “I was having a little fun with Tony … Garcia.”

“Make sure that’s the only fun you have with him.”

She flipped open the file. “Are you my partner or my dad?”

In place of an answer, he started typing furiously.

“Don’t break the computer,” she said without looking up from her reading. “That’s government equipment, you know.”

“Hilarious,” he snarled from behind his screen, and continued banging on the keyboard.

The cellar was starting to feel crowded. She stood up and pulled on her coat. Started stacking the files. “You know what, Ruben—Agent Creed—I’m going to take this stuff home with me. If Garcia comes by my place—”

“I’m betting he won’t.”

“When Garcia comes by place, we can go over these together.”

“Don’t hold your breath, missy.”

Behind his back, she flipped him the bird and took off for the day.

HE WAS RIGHT. Garcia didn’t show. She fell asleep with the files.

Chapter 6

JUGGLING HER PURSE, An armload of books, A can of diet pop, and the mangled remains of a Slim-Fast bar, the reed-thin woman hustled up two flights of stairs and down a narrow hallway with high ceilings. Just before she entered the classroom, she polished off her drink, spotted a trash can, and tossed the empty into the receptacle. The clatter made her wince. The classroom door was wide open, propped by an ancient copy of The Living Webster Encyclopedic Dictionary of the English Language. The old building was stuffy, and the prof kept the door open to prevent everyone from suffocating.

She slipped inside, zeroed in on an empty desk in the last row, and dropped into it. She ran a hand through her short spiky hair, dyed to match the color of black licorice, and checked her watch. As soon as she was done with this class, she had to bolt for another appointment.

While she shrugged off her vest, she watched the professor scribbling on the board. In an attempt to blend in with their students, some instructors wore jeans and T-shirts or the occasional flannel shirt with the requisite frayed collar and cuffs. Some had beards or other facial hair, and a few of the arty ones had long hair. This guy looked the way college professors were portrayed in movies: Dress slacks. Dress shirt. Necktie. Blazer. Loafers or wing tips. His belt always matched his shoes, a miracle for a single man who wasn’t gay. Clean-shaven face. Short blond hair with a bit of curl on top and a smudge of gray on the sideburns.

When the school year started, he’d had a sunburned face and a tan on the back of his neck. During a hot spell that early September, he’d removed his blazer and rolled up his sleeves, revealing tanned, muscled arms covered with blond hair. She bet most of the girls in her class and a couple of the guys suffered a drop in grades that week.

Not surprisingly, his classes were popular with female students. His looks and the subject matter were both big draws, but they weren’t the only ones. The professor listened to women when they spoke. It was a precious and rare commodity, a man who listened to the female voice instead of tuning it out.

Before opening her notebook, she reached around to the back cover and ran her index finger over the outline of the octagon. She’d seen the stickers before at student health fairs and the like but had been too self-conscious to pick one up. On the first day of class, the prof had distributed them to his students. Most of the kids waited until they were in the hallway and then tossed theirs in the trash can. A couple had made derisive remarks. She’d kept hers, plastering it to the back cover of the notebook. Just in case.

She opened the notebook to a clean page, clicked her pen, and emptied the last inch of Slim-Fast into her mouth.

The prof spun around and spotted her sitting in the back row, chewing. “Glad you could join us, Ms. Klein.”

He called all the students by their names. Without assigning seats or checking a cheat sheet, he’d learned the first and last names of all twenty of them by the third day of class. Most of the students still didn’t know one another’s names. He went around the Formica-topped table that served as his desk and leaned his butt against it. She was glad she wasn’t sitting in the front row; she’d be staring where she ought not. “Kyra, swallow your breakfast and read us anything by Dorothy Parker.”

Kyra Klein cracked open The Poetry & Short Stories of Dorothy Parker, ran her tongue across her top front teeth to make sure she didn’t have a nut wedged between them, and opened her mouth to launch into the poem.

“Wait,” the professor said, holding up his palm like a traffic cop.

Klein glanced up from her book.

“Read us anything by Dorothy Parker as long as it isn’t ‘Résumé.’”

She looked back down and turned the page.

“Kyra. Don’t tell me.”

Grinning, she looked up. “It’s my favorite.”

“Fine,” he said. “Torture me if you must. I’ve only heard the damn thing a million times.”

She continued her page flipping. “I can find something else.”

“While you’re doing that, tell us why you picked Dorothy Parker for your paper in the first place.”

She looked up from her book. “Actually, my first choice was Sylvia Plath, but you told us we couldn’t do her.”

He stood straight and ran his eyes around the room. “How many of you wanted Sylvia Plath?”

Nearly everyone raised his or her hand.

“Good God, people. Sylvia Plath?”

“What’s wrong with Sylvia Plath?” asked a girl sitting to Klein’s right.

“Cliché city,” squeaked Jess, who always sat in the front row, smack-dab in the middle. Jess had a shaved head and was either a puffy guy with a Truman Capote voice or a puffy woman with the downy beginnings of an Ernest Hemingway beard. Out of sensitivity and without prior planning or discussion, the entire class avoided the minefield of transgender issues in literature while Jess was in their midst.

“I could fill the Metrodome with undergraduate papers on Sylvia Plath, and to a one, they would be wretched,” said the professor. He went back to the board, scribbled madly, and stepped to one side. He’d scrawled Sylvia Plath, drew a bell shape around the name, and then slashed a diagonal bar across it.

A young woman two seats in front of Klein raised her hand. “How can we take a class like this without Sylvia Plath?”

“I didn’t say we’d do without her, Alisha.” He went back around the Formica table and poked an index finger in his chest. “I shall discuss Sylvia Plath, and you shall listen.”

He walked between the rows of desks, heading for Klein. Clasping his hands behind his back, he came up next to her. “Now tell us about number two on your hit parade.”

He was wearing cologne. Did he have a date tonight? There were rumors he went out with students. Distracted by his closeness, she dropped her lashes and fumbled with the small volume under her hands. “Well … she … she had a hard life. Both her parents died. She lived in a boardinghouse for a while and played the piano to make money. She wrote fashion ads for Vogue.”

“‘Brevity is the soul of lingerie,’” he said.

She looked up with wide eyes. “What?”

He turned around and marched back to the front of the room. “That was one of her clever captions.”

“She had a successful writing career. Poetry and short stories and scripts for Hollywood. But she wasn’t always happy.”

The professor leaned one hand against the table. “She tried to kill herself. More than once.”

Klein nodded slowly.

“And that’s what this class is all about, isn’t it?” Returning to the board, he wrote something in large letters, underlined it three times, and stepped away so the class could read it. Enough Rope. “Who can explain what that means?”

A boy in a middle row raised his hand.

The professor pointed at him. “Jason?”

“It’s part of an expression. Enough rope to hang yourself. It’s like—I don’t know … you do it to yourself.”

Klein raised her hand.

“You’d better get this right, Kyra,” the professor said.

“It’s the title of one of Dorothy Parker’s best-selling collections of poetry,” she said.

“Excellent.” He tipped his head toward her. “From that collection, please read the selection that you think best illuminates the creative and personal struggles of Mrs. Parker.” He paused. “And, Kyra, if you really think your first selection does the job, then by all means, go right ahead.”

Klein turned back to “Résumé,” the oft-quoted poem about suicide, and began reading. “‘Razors pain you …’”

AFTER CLASS let out, she hung back while the other students surrounded him to ask questions about their papers and a quiz set for Friday. She’d wait and get him alone. While she leaned against the edge of a desk, she looked at her watch. Screw her doctor’s appointment. Let him wait on her for a change.

After the room emptied of the other students, Klein approached him while he erased the board. There was that cologne again. “Professor, I’m having second thoughts about Mrs. Parker. I’m thinking I might do Anne Sexton instead.”

He moved to the end of the board listing students’ names alongside the writers they were set to profile. Before he erased “Dorothy Parker,” he turned and asked Klein, “Why the change of heart?”

“It’s—she … her life was a little too much like mine.”

He looked at the clock on the wall. “There isn’t another class in here for forty-five minutes. Let’s sit.”

She took a seat in the front row, he turned a desk around so it faced her, and they sat across from each other. While she talked, he listened and nodded and interrupted only to ask an occasional question. She was going to be really late for her appointment, and she didn’t give a damn. This was better therapy.