Текст книги "Blind Rage"

Автор книги: Terri Persons

Соавторы: Terri Persons
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Chapter 12

SPOOKED BY THE two visitors, the stray cat flattened itself against the wall as it darted into a dark corner. The stink of degeneracy hung in the air, an acrid combination of booze and urine. In the middle of the large space, a lone bulb dangled from the ceiling on a frayed cord and swayed in a draft that seemed to rise up from the floor. A semi rumbled past on the road outside, the sound muffled by the density of the basement stonework. Anyone passing by wouldn’t have given a glance to the dim light dancing against the basement’s glass block, but something extraordinary was about to take place on the other side of those windows.

Rubbing her arms over her blazer, Bernadette walked the perimeter while Garcia stood at the bottom of the steps with his arms folded in front of him. They’d had no trouble gaining access to the space. The door to the basement was not only unlocked but also practically falling off its hinges. More maintenance the building’s caretaker had been neglecting.

“What’re we looking for?” Garcia asked.

“A place to sit and do this,” she said distractedly. “A ledge or a chair.”

“You’re going to get dirty in this hole,” he said. “You should have changed into your jeans.”

“Too late for that now.” Seeing nothing along the walls, she made her way to the middle of the basement and stood under the bulb. The light flickered for a moment, then held steady. She ran her eyes over the ceiling, a maze of joists and pipes laced with cobwebs. “Built like a brick shithouse.”

Garcia wrinkled his nose. “Smells like one, too. Homeless folks must have used the basement as a toilet for years before the building was rescued.”

“I think Kitty is still using it as a litter box,” she said, lifting up her shoe and checking the bottom. “I’ve had my fill of cat shit today, I’ll tell you.”

Garcia checked his own shoe and scraped the bottom on the edge of the last step. “Let’s hope this is from Kitty.”

Her eyes widened. “Did you hear that?”

“What?”

“I heard some … I don’t know—scraping.”

“Are you trying to spook me?” he asked.

“No. I’m serious.”

Slipping his hand past his coat and blazer, he touched his holstered gun. The basement was dotted with massive support pillars, and he peeked around them as he walked toward her. “I don’t hear anything.”

“Probably a mouse or another cat taking a poop,” she said.

He stepped next to her. “Should I go upstairs and get you a folding chair? I could grab a blanket out of your condo.”

“Don’t forget the wine and bread and cheese.”

He laughed gently. “Right.”

“Actually, I can sit on the floor against the wall,” she said.

“I don’t want you to do that; it’s filthy down here.”

“No biggie,” she said, and headed for a corner of the room.

“Wait.” Following her, he took off his trench coat and spread it out on the floor.

She was both touched and amused by his gallant gesture. Looking down at the spot he’d prepared on the floor, she said, “I feel like I’m on a bad date. A really, really bad date that is about to get a lot worse.”

“It’s not too late for the wine. Bottle of Ripple would be about right.”

“My daddy warned me about boys like you,” she said, lowering herself onto the makeshift blanket. She stretched her legs out in front of her and leaned back against the wall.

“I’m really sorry about this,” he said, gazing at her.

“In case you haven’t noticed, I am not into high-end fashion.” She patted her thighs. “I get all my suits from the junior department. Wash and wear.”

“That doesn’t make me feel any better.” He reached inside his blazer and produced a plastic bag the size of a sandwich. He squatted down next to her and stretched out his hand. “Here you go.”

She stared at the bag without making a move to take it. “I’m afraid.”

“Of what you’ll see?”

“That I won’t see anything.”

Fingering the plastic, he said, “We don’t have to do this today. I put pressure on you because I didn’t …”

She reached out and took it from him. “Give me a minute to get in the mood.”

“Whatever you want.”

Bernadette unsealed the bag and tipped it upside down. A scarf the length of her arm spilled out onto her lap. It was olive-colored silk. Monica Taratino had gone missing in May, and Bernadette thought the color was subtle for a spring scarf. What had the young woman been thinking about the moment she put it on? Probably not her own mortality. The fabric smelled vaguely of a woman’s perfume. Had she dabbed it on to impress a particular man or to please herself? It was something spicy and Oriental and indulgent. “Opium,” Bernadette murmured.

Garcia frowned. “Drugs are involved?”

“No. She wore Opium perfume.” An elegant scent and a tasteful silk scarf. Despite her emotional problems, Monica Taratino had a touch of class. A sympathetic pang stabbed Bernadette’s gut, and she stared at the puddle of perfumed fabric resting in her lap, at once anxious and afraid to touch it.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she said, and scooped up the scarf.

She tightened her right fist around the silk, rested her hand in her lap, and closed her eyes. It was as quiet as an empty church. The only noise she heard was the sound of her own breathing and that of the man hunkered down inches from her. Inhaling deeply, she took in the basement’s stench. Rather than fight the dankness, she embraced it. The pit became her own private dungeon, a hell to which she’d been rightfully banished for her offenses. Practicing or not, she remained a Catholic and had no trouble coming up with a list of sins: Lusting after the man sharing the basement with her, a friend and boss she couldn’t and shouldn’t have. Letting her husband die by failing to spot his depression. Recklessly wielding an unnatural gift that she only vaguely understood.

She exhaled slowly. Under her breath, she made her usual petition: “Lord, help me see clearly.”

SHE OPENS HER eyes. The basement stonework melts away and is replaced by a wall of windows. Curtains cover the panes, but the fabric is so sheer she can see through them. It is night out, but a weak, white glow is seeping through the curtains. Is it moonlight? Streetlights? A yard light? Whatever it is, Bernadette wishes it was stronger. Between the poor illumination and her blurry sight, the room is a poorly focused black-and-white photo rather than a snapshot offering sharp details. The killer moves closer to the windows, and Bernadette prays he takes a peek outside so that she can get a clue about his location. Instead, he turns around.

He’s standing by the side of a mattress. He glances across the bed—it’s a big four-poster—and looks at a woman standing along the other side. She is slender and pale and has long brown hair that flows past her shoulders. The most striking thing about her, however, is the fact that she’s nude. It’s too early for bed, so they’re obviously hopping in the sack for another reason. Is she going to be his next victim? Will he bed this one before he drowns her?

The murderer’s eyes are locked on his partner, and all Bernadette can see of the room is what is beyond the woman’s pale naked body: a single, massive piece of furniture. An armoire. This is either a very simple bedroom or a hotel room. There must be a mirror in the room. If only the murderer would step up to a mirror. Even though the room is dimly lit, a glimpse of his reflection would give her something. A verification of his size. His hair color. Are you a big blond dude?

He looks back to his side of the bed. There’s a nightstand with a lamp on it. Turn on the lamp! He doesn’t, of course, but he glances at a digital clock with large glowing numbers. This is real time. This is happening right now.

Reaching down, he tears back the bedspread. As he does so, Bernadette catches a glimpse of his right hand. It’s white. He glances across the mattress, and the woman pulls down the covers on her side of the bed. She hops onto the mattress and pulls the covers over her body. She’s wearing rings on the fingers of both hands, but Bernadette can’t tell if there’s a wedding band in the collection.

He climbs in next to her and reaches across her. Are those blond hairs on his arm? Too difficult to see for certain. He yanks the covers out of her hands; he wants to see her naked body. His right hand goes to her breasts. This isn’t gentle fondling; he’s kneading and squeezing. Her legs move restlessly as he touches her, but she makes no move to push him away. He crawls on top of the woman, and Bernadette wonders if he’s already wearing a condom. She hopes not.

The murderer’s mouth goes to her throat. Though his face is close to his partner’s, Bernadette still fails to get a clear picture of her. In the dimness, all she sees is a white oval slashed with almond eyes.

The woman beneath the killer brings her arms up to hold him to her, but he doesn’t want that. He grabs her wrists and brings them up over her head, pinning her arms against her pillow. Bernadette senses this is about to get rough, and she feels her own body tense. She wishes she could release the scarf and end the unsettling movie, but she must see this thing through. Bernadette needs to know if he kills the woman after having intercourse with her.

He releases her wrists. The woman rocks wildly under his thrusts and clutches the rails of the headboard in an attempt to brace herself. She opens her mouth. Is she crying out in pain or pleasure?

Suddenly it all goes black. The connection is severed.

BERNADETTE CLOSED her eyes and relaxed her fist, letting the scarf drop from her hand. Opening her eyes again, she saw only blackness. It was like having a sack pulled over her head.

“Tony,” she said to the void.

“I’m here.”

She turned her head toward his voice and blinked twice. Her regular vision cleared and she saw his face. Her breathing was rapid and shallow, and she struggled to speak. What escaped from her lips was a panted exclamation. “Oh my God.”

He stood from his crouched position. “What did you see?”

“A woman.”

“Not another victim.”

“No … not yet, at least.” The words came, but they were labored. She felt as if she were talking while running a race. “He was making love to her, but it wasn’t tender. It was cruel … I could feel it … I can still feel it.”

“What do you mean? What do you feel? What was he doing to her? Did he hit her? Choke her?”

“No, but … it was rough,” she panted. “He was rough.”

“Can you describe the woman or where they were? Their surroundings?”

Garcia sounded desperate, and she wanted to help him, but nothing she had seen could immediately lead them to a particular person or place. “I don’t have specifics … I’m sorry.”

“Can you give me anything we can use? Is there something I should be calling in right away?”

“No,” she snapped. “I’m sorry. You know how this works.” She scrambled to her feet and stumbled backward against the wall. “This was nothing but a waste of time. God, what if another one turns up dead tomorrow!”

“Take it easy,” said Garcia, grabbing her by the shoulder to steady her.

“I’m fine.” She pushed his hand down. In the next instant, she wanted to throw herself against him.

He took a step back. “What’s wrong with you?”

She opened her mouth to retort and quickly closed it. The murderer’s mood had become her own, and she had to regain control. “I need a second,” she said, leaning her back against the wall.

“You’ve got it,” he said.

Closing her eyes and concentrating, she worked to moderate her breathing and cool her temper. She inhaled deeply and released the air slowly. In and out. She was having a harder time clearing her system of the lust. Her genuine desire for Garcia was fueling the residual passion of the killer. Perhaps leaving the basement and putting some space between herself and her boss would help. Opening her eyes, she said, “Let’s get out of here, Tony.”

“Fine by me.”

She felt something under her feet. She’d been standing on his coat. “I’m sorry,” she said, and stepped off it.

Garcia retrieved the scarf and slipped it back inside the plastic bag. He picked up his trench, gave it a snap, and draped it over his arm. “I’m sure you got something we can use. Maybe if you sit down and think about it. Tell me what you saw.”

“First let’s crawl out of this sewer,” she said, and headed for the stairs. She was light-headed and paused before placing her foot on the first step.

Garcia put his hand in the middle of her back. “You okay?”

His touch sent a hot, dizzying rush through her body, and she gripped the rail for support. “I’m good,” she croaked, and started up.

Garcia thumped up the steps next to her, sniffing his coat as he went. “Should we just head to your loft?”

“Sounds like a plan,” she said, while thinking it would be a huge mistake.

“I’m starving. How about you talk while I fry those steaks you promised me?”

She was famished, too. It had to be the killer’s hunger. Watching through his eyes had roused more than one sort of appetite inside her. She pushed open the door to the first-floor hallway. “Steak sounds great.”

Chapter 13

WHILE GARCIA FRIED the steaks, she sat at the kitchen table with a Post-it pad in front of her and a glass of Chianti in her hand. She’d hoped to organize her thoughts before recounting what she’d seen, but she was too unsettled to sort through it. Taking a sip of Chianti, she stole a peek at the chef. He was a big reason she remained flustered. He’d peeled off his jacket and tie and rolled up his shirtsleeves. She set down the wine, picked up a pen, and clicked it repeatedly.

Fork in one fist and a beer in the other, Garcia turned around and eyed the yellow pad on the table. “Not that goofy shit again. I don’t know anyone else in the bureau who does it that way.”

“Good. That means I’m special.” She glanced over at the stove. “Getting a little smoky in here, Emeril.”

He took a sip of beer and pointed the bottle at her. “You look like hell.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

She rested her elbows on the table and dropped her face in her palms. “Fuck,” she said through her fingers.

“What?”

She put her hands down. “The woman I watched. Suppose she’s dead right now? I can’t think of a single thing I saw that would help us. I’m sitting here, as useless as tits on a boar.”

“I love it when you talk farm talk.” He turned around, took another drink, and flipped the steaks. “Maybe you should kick back for the rest of the night. Relax and clear your head. We can hash it over in the morning.”

“I want to talk about it while it’s fresh in my mind.”

He took a bump off his bottle. “Your call, but it’s not as if you’re the only one assigned to this.”

She didn’t like how this conversation was going and started clicking the pen again while glaring at his back. “Don’t tell me you’re relying on that moron Thorsson to work this.”

“I’m relying on the cops. It’s not a federal case yet, and you know it.”

“Yes, sir,” she said with mock stiffness.

“Stop with the sir crap.” Pointing the greasy fork at her, he added, “And stop with the Thorsson bashing. You’re not in competition.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, and took a sip of wine. “We’re all on the same team, sir.”

He bumped off his St. Pauli and stifled a burp. “That isn’t even remotely funny.”

She grinned. “I think it is.”

“These are done,” he declared, and shut off the stove. He carried the frying pan over to the table. “Got any steak sauce?”

“In the fridge.”

He yanked open the door and stuck his head inside to rummage around. “I don’t see it.”

She suddenly became lost in watching his body as he bent and moved. Snap out of it! He’s splattered with grease and smells like fried meat.

“Here it is.” He came back to the table and sat down with the bottle. He speared the smaller steak with the fork and dropped it on her plate. Deposited the big T-bone on his.

“Want to hear about what I saw?”

“Once again, is there anything we can use right away?”

“No,” she said.

He shook the steak sauce, unscrewed the cap, and poured a puddle on his plate. “Then let’s save it for dessert. It’ll still be fresh in your head after dinner, won’t it?” He picked up his knife and fork and started sawing the meat.

He’d lost his edge and intensity, she thought. Garcia was relieved that her sight hadn’t helped. As far as he was concerned, his delay in getting her the scarf had had no impact on the case. But what if he’d gotten the scarf to her sooner? What would she have seen then? Bringing it up now would only aggravate him. She picked up her fork and knife and started cutting into the steak. Maybe Garcia had given up on her sight, but she hadn’t. She could always give it a try again later.

AFTER DINNER, she cleared off the table and started filling the sink with water.

“Why are you doing dishes the old-fashioned way?” he asked as he fished another beer out of the fridge. “Miss the farm?”

“I miss a working dishwasher.”

“Can’t the caretaker fix it?”

She squirted a stream of dish soap into the sink. “Maybe he could, if I could find him.”

“This joint doesn’t believe in maintenance, I take it. I mean, how long has that security door out front been busted?”

“Since I moved in.”

He set his beer down on the counter and stood next to her, loading dishes into the sink. “Go put your feet up.”

Garcia was too close, and she had to get out of the kitchen before she got the both of them in trouble. Drying her hands on a towel, she said, “I am not going to turn down an offer like that.”

“What kind of cheesy renovation job did that August Murrick do on this building?” he asked as he dipped his hands into the suds.

Lowering herself onto the couch, she glanced around nervously. She was sure Augie was gone, but she didn’t want to tempt fate. “Can we not talk about my dear departed neighbor?”

“Fine by me,” Garcia said, scrubbing the frying pan. “He was your dead buddy, not mine.”

She kicked off her shoes and set her feet on the coffee table. “I could get used to this treatment.”

“I’ll be sending you a bill.”

She polished off her wine and raised her glass. “When you’re through over there, I could use another one of these.”

“Is that how you ask?”

“I could use another one of these, sir.”

After he finished the dishes, he refilled her glass and dropped down onto the opposite end of the couch with his St. Pauli. “What did you see and when did you see it and why won’t it help us?”

“I saw a room with a four-poster bed and an armoire.”

“That’s the complete description?”

“Sheer curtains on the windows.”

“That could be—”

“A bedroom anywhere. A hotel or motel room. The honeymoon suite at a bed and breakfast. Hell. It could have been the set of a porn movie.”

“By that you mean you saw them having sex?”

She took a sip of wine. She was still struggling to keep her libido in check, and this conversation wasn’t making it any easier. “Remember my limited point of view,” she said. “I saw what he saw.”

“Which was?”

“His bedmate. A pale woman with long brown hair.”

Garcia finished his beer and set the empty on the coffee table. “You said he was rough with her. What did you see him do … I mean, what did his partner do that indicated he was being rough?”

She put the wineglass to her lips, tipped it back, and drained it. “He grabbed her breasts and …”

Garcia raised his hand to stop her. “If this is making you uncomfortable—”

“No, no,” she said, and set her wineglass on the table. “We’re all adults here.”

“What else? If you saw him fondling her, you must have gotten a look at his hands or arms. Tattoos? Scars?”

“Neither. He’s white. I’m pretty sure there were blond hairs on his arms, but I can’t be a hundred percent certain. They didn’t have any lamps on, and the room was dark because it was nighttime. The sheers were allowing a little light inside from, I don’t know, the moon or streetlights or something.”

“Do you think it was nighttime here, in the Twin Cities?”

“I got a look at a bedside clock, and it was the same time as it was here. If they’re not in town, they’re at least in the same time zone.”

“Wow. That nails it. A white male, maybe blond, in a bedroom or a motel room located somewhere in our time zone.”

Ignoring his crack, she snatched her wineglass and his bottle off the table and took them into the kitchen. She opened the fridge. “You want another beer?”

“I don’t know,” he said, checking his watch. “Do you want to kick me out?”

She did, but not because she was tired. Telling herself she had enough self-control to keep her hands off him, she pulled out a St. Pauli and went over to hand it to him. “No. Stay. Stay.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure,” she said, and returned to the kitchen to pour another glass of wine for herself. “Hey. Did you get that doctor’s name? The one who prescribed lithium to Klein?”

“Almost forgot.” He reached into his pants pocket and dropped a folded square of paper on her coffee table.

“Good,” she said.

“Cops have already interviewed him, by the way.”

“I’ve got my own set of questions.”

“Gonna start with him in the morning?”

“The professor.”

“Let’s plug in a movie and forget about work for a couple of hours.” He went over to her DVD rack.

They watched two movies, a Johnny Depp film about a writer wigging out and turning homicidal, followed by a Robert De Niro flick about a widower wigging out and turning homicidal. Garcia had made both picks. They sat together on the couch but remained firmly planted on opposite ends. She was going to suggest the Glenn Close–Michael Douglas classic about the jealous mistress wigging out and turning homicidal but decided there was too much rough sex in it and it might set her off again.

It was close to midnight by the time Garcia went home, but she was still too wound up to go to sleep. He’d left the bagged scarf on the coffee table next to the paper containing the doctor’s name. Both objects seemed to be calling to her, but one more than the other, and she couldn’t resist.

She ran upstairs to change into her rattiest jeans and a sweatshirt. She’d take the scarf for another round in the basement. While Garcia had disliked the hole, she’d been pleased with how quickly it had allowed her to connect with the killer.