Текст книги "Blind Rage"

Автор книги: Terri Persons

Соавторы: Terri Persons
сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

“I teach a university class called the Poetry of Suicide, and most of my students are young women. Young university women have been committing suicide by leaping off the Washington Avenue Bridge.” He leaned across the top of his desk and dropped his folded hands on a stack of papers. “I was waiting for someone to come to me for a consult.”

“A consult?”

“As a footnote, you should know I was one of the faculty who helped draft the open letter to the community pleading for peace.” He smiled. “‘Restrain the passions’ lawless riot.’ That was one of my contributions. It’s from Horace Smith’s ‘Moral Cosmetics.’ Not a particularly fun poem. ‘Ye who would have your features florid’—”

“Two of your students are dead, sir,” she interrupted. “What do you know about—”

“Two?” He took his hands off his desk and sat up stiffly in his chair. It squeaked with the sudden movement. “Who—”

“Kyra Klein.”

“She … I just spoke with her after class on Wednesday … She’s not—she can’t be … When?” He dragged his hand across his forehead as if scraping off sweat, but Bernadette could see none. “Don’t tell me she jumped from the—”

“Before her, there was the student in your class on madness,” said Bernadette, emphasizing the last word to prod him.

“Alice Bergerman dropped out after the first day of class. She wasn’t really one of my students. I spent two seconds talking to her after she decided to—”

“For someone you knew for two seconds, her name came to you pretty quickly.”

His face blanched, and he swallowed hard before answering. “The police talked to me over the phone to see if she’d demonstrated any despondency in class. When they found out that she’d dropped my course, they didn’t even bother to—”

“Where were you Wednesday night?”

“What?”

“Two of your students have died under mysterious circumstances.”

“Alice killed herself. The police said so. What happened to Kyra? Did she—”

“Why do you suppose two of your students have died? That can’t be pure coincidence. Even if they were both suicides—and I don’t believe they were—why would two of your students kill themselves?”

“I … My classes attract young women who are … tortured. Emotionally … tortured.”

“‘Tortured?’” Bernadette repeated. She didn’t like his use of the word.

“Look at the course titles. Madness in American Literature. The Poetry of Suicide. Sometimes they talk to me. I listen. They think because I teach the class, I know something about the mental illnesses themselves. I have some insight, certainly. I thought that’s why you were here.”

“That was a smokescreen on your part, or maybe wishful thinking,” she snapped.

He stood up and slammed his hands on his desk, knocking off a mound of papers. She reached inside her coat and put her hand on her gun. He had a temper, the caring, sensitive male.

“I want a lawyer. I am not talking to you any longer without a lawyer present.”

She could smell the sweat on him now, pushing through the cologne. She bet that under the nice blazer, his dress shirt sported armpit stains the size of dinner plates. Even though there was no record of the other bathtub victim having been one of his students, Bernadette tossed her name at him. “Shelby Hammond. What about her?”

“Never heard of her,” he said, coming around his desk and motioning with his hand toward the door. “Please.”

“You haven’t been arrested or charged with anything, Professor. I just need you to answer a few questions.” She stood up. “If another girl turns up missing or dead, your lack of cooperation could look bad.”

“I’ve done nothing wrong.” He walked to the door and continued to motion with his hand. “Please leave. Please.”

She stayed standing in the middle of the office, one hand on her gun and the other on a business card. “Look, Professor. It’s obvious the kids like you.”

He shook his head back and forth. “Don’t try to—”

“You may know something that would help. Maybe one of the dead girls said something telling, something that you wouldn’t recognize as valuable.” She set a card on top of Flannery O’Connor—Collected Works. “Think about it.”

He walked into the hallway and turned around, waiting for her to leave. “You should think about talking to these girls’ health care providers. Some of these young women were really disturbed. Tortured.”

He used that word a little too frequently, thought Bernadette. She wondered what putting the word water in front of it would do for him.

SHE WALKED OUT of his office and felt his eyes on her until she went down the stairwell. When she got outside, she called Garcia. “I want to pull together a surveillance of this Professor Wakefielder. Tonight.”

Garcia said, “You sure?”

“I just left his office. He was sweating bullets. Pulled the lawyer card on me and clammed up.”

“That sure as hell isn’t enough to get a judge to bless a wiretap.”

“I’m not asking for one. Besides, I don’t want to deal with TSS,” she said, referring to the Technical Support Squad. They were nicknamed the Tough Shit Squad, because that’s what they said when turning down the many requests for their tech talent.

“So what do you want?”

“A vehicle parked out front.” She saw Wakefielder exit Lind Hall and ducked behind a tree to continue watching him. He had a lunch sack in his hand and was headed for the student union across the street. “If he drags a body out of the house over the weekend, it might make for a nice Kodak moment.”

“You really don’t have—”

“Two of the dead girls were his students. Two.”

“I’ll work on it,” he said. “I suppose Thorsson and his partner could use a little us time in the front seat of a car.”

That made her smile. “Sounds good.”

“What’re you doing now?”

She pulled out the square of paper Garcia had given her. “I made an appointment to see a Luke VonHader. He’s in the neighborhood.”

Chapter 17

THE MAN’S ATTENTION shifted back and forth between the agent’s blue left eye and brown right eye. “I should have asked if you wanted cream or sugar.”

Bernadette accepted the mug from the receptionist—he’d introduced himself as Charles—and lowered herself into a chair. “Black is fine.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to take your coat?”

She cupped the mug between her gloved hands. “I’m still trying to warm up.”

“It is cold out there,” he said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if we got snow before Halloween.”

“That’s Minnesota for you,” she said, offering the gold-standard response to any weather report.

He left her side to dote on two girls, twins, who, along with their mother, were sharing the waiting room with her. The girls couldn’t have been more than ten or twelve. Bernadette wondered why such young things needed a psychiatrist.

“I’ve got a treat for you,” he said, and reached into his shirt pocket to withdraw a pair of lollipops. The girls snatched the suckers. Their mother looked up from her magazine and smiled at Charles. He led the twins and their mother into one room and came back and took Bernadette to another.

“Are they identical?” said Bernadette, trying to make conversation during the walk down the hall.

“I think so,” he said as he opened the doctor’s office door for her. “Twins are so … special.”

“They are,” she said, remembering her own twin. She went over to the couch, sat down, and patted the seat next to her. “Is this where all the action takes place?”

His blond brows arched like startled caterpillars. “Action?”

Bernadette smiled pleasantly. “Do the patients actually recline on this while talking to the doctor, like in the movies?”

“Sometimes, if they’ve had a really bad week.” He nodded toward a straight-backed chair facing the doctor’s desk. “But most patients sit over there.”

She nodded but didn’t say anything to extend the conversation. She wanted the candy man to take off.

He cleared his throat. “Can I get you anything else? Another cup of coffee?”

She shook her head.

“Well … if you’ll excuse me, I have some calls to make.”

“Go right ahead,” Bernadette said. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine by myself.”

As soon as Charles closed the door, Bernadette got up to snoop. Her first stop was VonHader’s desk, but the top was bare except for a telephone, an ink blotter, and a black-and-white family portrait. “A neat desk is a sign of a sick mind,” she muttered to herself.

She picked up the framed photo and examined it. A handsome man, obviously the doctor, was resting on his side on a beach with one leg stretched out and the other bent. An attractive woman in a wide-brimmed sunhat was seated cross-legged in front of his bent knee, cradling a baby. Behind the couple, a toddler girl stood with an arm draped over her mother’s shoulder. They were all in jeans, including the baby, but the man nevertheless seemed stiff and formal. While the others topped their outfits with T-shirts, he was in a dress shirt with buttoned cuffs. The group was smiling into the camera, but the man’s grin appeared forced. Almost pained. Bernadette got the distinct impression that Dr. Luke VonHader needed to lighten up.

She set down the photo and tried pulling open his desk drawers. They were all locked. “Figures.”

She went over to the bookshelves that took up the entire wall behind his desk. Taking down one volume tucked into the middle of the library, she examined the cover. Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. “Riveting,” she said to herself, and put it back. She took down another book. Homicide: A Psychiatric Perspective. Finding the title more interesting, she flipped through its pages and put it back.

She went over to a wall on one side of the desk and took in the collection of certificates and awards. A framed cover from the Harvard Review of Psychiatry caught her attention, and she examined it closely. He’d authored one of the main articles in that issue. It had to do with distinguishing borderline personality disorder from bipolar spectrum disorder. His degree was from Harvard Medical School.

“Another Harvard man,” she muttered.

He had awards from the National Alliance for the Mentally Ill and the American Psychiatric Association.

The brag wall didn’t provide her with much more than she already had on the guy. After researching Wakefielder and the Washington Avenue Bridge that morning, she’d gathered a bit of background on the psychiatrist. Medical professionals didn’t easily surrender information about patients, and shrinks were especially skittish about privacy. She’d wanted some leverage should this doctor put up a fight.

The office door popped open, and a man wearing a mop of blond hair leaned inside. “Are you in the right room, miss?”

Her eyes shot back to the desktop photo, but she still couldn’t tell if this was the doctor addressing her. Outfitted in rumpled slacks and a long-sleeved rugby shirt, he looked more casual and relaxed than the stiff in the portrait. The face and the hair were similar, however. She went over to him. “Dr. VonHader?”

He stepped inside. “No, I’m Matt.”

Charles came in behind him. “This is your brother’s appointment.”

Smiling broadly, Matthew flashed a set of white teeth and pointed a finger at her. “I’ll bet you’re the new drug rep from—”

“She’s from the FBI,” Charles blurted.

Still smiling, Matthew folded his arms in front of him. “Is that right?”

Bernadette had a feeling she’d get more out of this guy than she ever would out of his brother. He looked younger and wore no wedding band. His leering grin had player written all over it. She extended her gloved fingers. “Agent Bernadette Saint Clare.”

“Nice to meet you,” he said, accepting her hand. “What’s this about?”

“Can you tell me anything about Kyra Klein?” Bernadette asked.

“Not really,” he said with a shrug. “Sad story, though.”

The doctor had been sharing with his brother. “Maybe you can answer a few general questions about—”

Charles put his hand on Matthew’s back. “Can I see you for a moment—alone?”

“Excuse me, Agent Saint Clare,” Matthew said, and turned to follow the receptionist out the door.

“I’d like to speak with you later,” Bernadette said to his back.

“Sure,” he said over his shoulder, and disappeared into the hallway.

Candy Man’s large fingers reached into the office and closed the door after them. Bernadette put her ear to the wood but heard nothing. Charles had probably taken Matthew into another room for a stern lecture about talking to strange women.

As she returned to her inventory of the senior VonHader’s office, the door opened again. This time she knew it was her man. Wearing a somber suit and expression, he looked as lighthearted as a veteran IRS agent.

Wasting no time with pleasantries, he walked briskly inside and stepped behind his desk. “Agent Saint Clare?” he asked, dropping a briefcase.

She moved toward him with an extended arm. “Dr. Luke VonHader?”

“Yes.” He clasped her hand briefly and released it. He nodded at the chair parked in front of his desk. “Please have a seat.”

“Thank you,” she said, and lowered herself into the chair.

“I assume you’re here about Kyra Klein,” he said, while pulling folders out of his briefcase and setting them on his desk.

“Yes, I am.”

“I’m confused,” he said, snapping the briefcase closed and shoving it to one side of his desk.

“About?”

He sat down behind his desk. “How is her death a federal matter?”

“I can’t answer that question,” she said. “This is an open case and I’m unable to release any details about it.”

“You realize I’ve already spoken with the Minneapolis police.”

“Their investigation is entirely separate from the bureau’s.”

“Also keep in mind that I was her psychiatrist, not her psychologist or therapist.”

“I’m aware of the difference.”

“Are you?” He picked up one of the folders and tapped the bottom of it on his desk. “The police seemed to need an education on the subject.”

“You’re a professional who has completed both medical school and training in psychiatry. You diagnose and treat mental illness. You prescribe meds. Psychologists and therapists are more into the touchy-feely stuff.”

“You get an A plus.” He set the folder down in front of him and checked his watch. “I don’t have much time, so if we could get to it.”

She took out her pen and notebook. “For starters, tell me about—”

“Keep in mind that patient privacy regulations prevent me from saying anything about Miss Klein’s medical issues and treatment.”

“She’s dead.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that she was my patient,” he said.

“I’m sure you’re aware that law enforcement may have access,” she said.

“My understanding is that medical records may be subpoenaed for court cases, but even that has been challenged,” he said. “For example, there was that Supreme Court ruling that federal courts must allow mental health professionals to refuse to disclose patient records in judicial proceedings.”

“This isn’t a courtroom,” she said.

He held up his palms defensively. “I’m not trying to be an obstructionist, Agent Saint Clare. I’m trying to honor my patient’s privacy.”

“Kyra Klein doesn’t care what you tell me. She’s dead.”

“She has a family.”

“What do you feel comfortable giving me?”

“Information about mental health matters in general. Descriptions of various disorders and how they’re treated. Side effects of drugs. Anything beyond that—well … I’d have to consult with my attorney before talking to you.”

Another helpful citizen trying to trump her with the lawyer card. Bernadette decided to hurl her bluntest questions and observe his reaction: “Did Kyra Klein commit suicide?”

He didn’t flinch or hesitate in his answer. “I suggest you ask that of the Hennepin County medical examiner. He must make that determination.”

“She may have overdosed on the lithium you prescribed for her. Doesn’t that concern you?”

He flipped open the file in front of him and trained his eyes on it. “The welfare of all my patients and their medication use concerns me.”

“There’s also the possibility that a murderer laced her wine with the lithium to make her easier to subdue. Wouldn’t it bother you to know that a bottle with your name on it was used to dope your patient and facilitate her homicide? Doesn’t that make you want to help find her killer?”

“The fact that Miss Klein is dead troubles me greatly.” He looked up from the folder. “But this theory that she was the victim of murder …”

She leaned forward. “I’m listening.”

“Without commenting on the specifics of Miss Klein’s case, let me say this. Mood disorders are by far the most commonly diagnosed mental illness in suicide deaths, and patients with bipolar disorders are at a particularly high risk. In fact, a quarter to one-half of all patients with bipolar disorder attempt suicide at least once.”

“There are things about Miss Klein’s death that indicate it was something other than suicide,” said Bernadette.

“What things?”

“If she was murdered, who did it? Who wanted her dead? She must have told you if she was having problems with someone in her life.”

“Agent Saint Clare—”

“I just want to know what you think. Who should we be looking at for this?” She dropped her pen and pad back into her pocket and held up her empty hands. “Look. No notes.”

“No notes?” He offered her a tight smile. “I’m an educated man, Agent Saint Clare. Do you really think I’m that naïve?”

“I think you’re hiding something or protecting someone,” she said. “That’s what I think.”

“I’m trying to protect my practice.”

“Protect it from what?”

“Let’s say for a moment that her death is indeed ruled a suicide. I am not saying that it was or wasn’t. But let’s say, for the sake of argument, that’s what the medical examiner determines.” He folded his hands atop his desk. “Who might be blamed for that suicide? In this litigious society, who might end up drawn into a protracted and expensive legal battle?”

She leaned back in her chair. “That’s what this is really about, isn’t it, Doctor? You don’t give a damn about patient privacy. You’re covering your rear end in case her family comes after you.”

He checked his watch again. “I’ve got to get some paperwork done before my afternoon patients.”

She picked up the family portrait and studied it. “Pretty girls.”

“Thank you.”

“Emily and Melissa, right?”

His posture stiffened in his chair. “If you’re finished, I need to get back to my—”

“Pretty wife, too. Elizabeth, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“She and the kiddies are in Arizona right now, isn’t that correct? Where was your vacation home again? Scottsdale? How’s the golf game these days?”

“How do you know where my family is and—”

“You’ve got it all, haven’t you?” She set the photo back down on the desk and spun it around so it faced the psychiatrist. “Picture-perfect family. Successful practice. Kudos from your colleagues hanging up on the wall.”

“I’m not liking your tone, Agent Saint Clare.”

“Big fancy house in Scottsdale. Big fancy house on Summit Avenue. Nice cars. Did you drive the Lexus today or the good old Volvo wagon? Actually, it’s not old, is it? It’s brand spanking new. It’d be a shame to lose all that nifty stuff.”

His jaw tensed and his eyes became slits. “How do you know where I live and what I drive?”

“You are naïve, Doctor,” she said.

He stood up. “Are you attempting to intimidate me?”

“Not at all,” she said evenly. “I’m just trying to figure out why someone with so much to lose would refuse to cooperate with his government.”

“My government has no business trying to force me to—”

Someone tapped.

“Yes!” VonHader barked.

Charles opened the door. “Do you two need coffee or anything?”

“I need you to see Miss Saint Clare to the exit.”

“Certainly, Doctor.” The receptionist opened the door wide and held it for the agent.

Bernadette sat frozen for a moment, staring at Luke VonHader from across the desk. She stood up, pulled a business card out of her trench coat, and slapped it down on the corner of his desk. “In case you change your mind.”

“I won’t,” the doctor said.

“This way, please,” said the Candy Man.

“I know the way out,” said Bernadette, walking through the door.

Chapter 18

“THAT COULD HAVE gone a lot better,” said Bernadette, stomping into the cellar and throwing her notebook on her desk.

Creed was there and he looked up from his computer. “Now what?”

She took off her coat and tossed it over the back of her chair. “I met with Kyra Klein’s prof this morning and her psychiatrist over lunch. Neither one would tell me anything.”

“I’m not surprised about the shrink. Patient privacy laws are a pain.”

“He’s just covering his rear,” she said, dropping into her seat. “He’s afraid of getting sued for wrongful death. That’s what this is really about. Hind End Covering 101. They teach it in med school. It’s a required class.”

“The prof, though. Why wouldn’t he want to help?”

“Klein is the second of his students to be found floating.”

“The second?”

“The other was the June victim. Alice Bergerman.”

“Damn. You’re on to something.” He nodded toward his computer screen. “But what about—”

“Don’t worry. I’m not bailing on the idea that these murders could be the result of some sort of water bondage thing. In fact, he kept using the word tortured. Some of his female students have these tortured souls.”

“Sounds like he was dangling it in front of you. Waiting for you to bite.”

“My thoughts exactly. I’m putting together a surveillance of him over the weekend. I want his ass watched.”

“Since we’ve latched on to the scintillating subject of butts”—he pointed at his monitor—“I’ve got something for you.”

“More porn? Are you becoming addicted to the stuff or what?” She got up from her chair and went over to his desk. “Am I going to have to organize an intervention?”

“You’re killing me,” he said.

Instead of dripping naked bodies, she saw a completed form for MapQuest. The Starting Location was the address for the cellar. She didn’t recognize the address of the Ending Location. She put her hand on the back of his chair and frowned at the screen. “Where are you sending me, Ruben?”

“To a studio across town.” He put his cursor over Get Directions and clicked his mouse. “The Land of Ten Thousand Lakes is home to a major producer of these aquatic films and other fetish adventures. Visceral Motion Pictures.”

She took her hand off his chair and stepped back. “You’re kidding me.”

“I kid you not.” He hit Print, and the office clunker started cranking out a copy of the directions.

“I can’t believe this is your harebrained scheme and not mine,” she said.

“You’ll have to dress more appropriately, of course.”

“What do you mean?” she asked indignantly.

“Trade in the bureau uniform.”

She was used to going undercover in jeans. Otherwise, her suits were nearly the only clothing she had in her closet. She looked down at her navy pantsuit and white blouse. “This isn’t so obvious. I could be a … banker.”

He swiveled his chair around. “The second you walked onto the set, the actors and actresses would pull the sheets over their heads.”

“Are there sheets?” she asked.

“Good question.” He tapped his keys, and a video came up on his screen. “Here’s one of their earlier films.”

“How early?”

“Last month. The critics gave it four out of five penises.”

“I don’t see any sheets,” she said, leaning in to get a look. “All I see are big boobs and lots of water.”

“These people are at the commercial epicenter of this fetish,” Creed said. “They should be able to give you the names of the big players. Maybe there’s a local person known for pushing the envelope. Perhaps there’s a whole club or cult that takes it to the limit and beyond. Could be your prof is a charter member.”

“What’s my story?”

“Here’s what I told them.”

She stepped around to face him. “You … called them?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“So how did you contact them?”

“We exchanged e-mails.”

“Oh. Right. That makes sense.”

“I told them I represented some venture capitalists who were interested in investing in their operation.”

She slowly nodded. “I suppose that works.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“No. That’s a good yarn. I can work with that.”

He folded his arms in front of him. “Don’t tell me you want to waltz in and pass yourself off as an actress.”

“Ruben … no,” she sputtered.

He threw his head back and laughed. “You do! That’s what you want to do! You want to play porn star!”

“Not porn star. I know I have modest … acting abilities.” She crossed her arms in front of her chest. “I just figured I could go in as an extra. That way I could keep my clothes on.”

“First off, these films don’t have extras,” he said. “Either you’re naked or you’re not on-screen. Are you willing to get naked for this case?”

Her arms tightened around her body. “No.”

“Secondly, at the ripe old age of …” He squinted at her. “How old are you?”

“Thirty-eight.”

“Really? You don’t look that old. You could pass for thirty.”

“Thanks. I guess. You were saying?”

“They like them in their early twenties, so you’re too old to be answering a casting call for a porn film.”

“Thanks again,” she said.

“You’re a venture capitalist.” He nodded toward her dark suit. “A venture capitalist in something other than an FBI uniform.”

“Fine, fine. I’ll put on a colored blouse.”

“For accessories, I’d suggest a Glock.”

“I never leave home without it.” She went over to the office printer and retrieved the directions to the studio.

“Do you think you should take someone with you?”

She read the directions. The studio was just outside Eden Prairie, a second-ring suburb southwest of Minneapolis. The area was punctuated by parks, green space, and rolling hills overlooking the Minnesota River. “This isn’t exactly a rough neighborhood.”

“But it can be a rough business.”

She gave him a dismissive wave of her hand. “I’ll be fine.”

“Don’t get sloppy, missy,” he warned. “It’s gotten you in trouble before.”

Was that a veiled reference to the basement mess? How would he know about that? She let it go. “I’ll be careful.”

“Want me to accompany you and cover your back?” he asked.

He couldn’t do that. Could he? Again, she didn’t want to know. “Keep working the case from here. See if you can come up with any other local links. You made more progress today than your partner. All I did was piss off a prof, then aggravate somebody’s shrink and get thrown out of his office by his receptionist.”

“I’ll keep at it,” Creed said.

“What time are they expecting me at this studio?”

“They’re shooting all day, so it’s pretty wide open.”

“Did you give them a name? What’s our company’s name?”

“Capital City Venture Group.”

“My name?”

“I didn’t know if you’d be going alone or what you had for ID, so I left that and a whole lot of other particulars up in the air.”

“And they were okay with that?”

“They want our money.”

“If they ask for ID, I’ve got something I can whip out.”

“I figured as much. But just in case …” He opened the top drawer of his desk and fished out a handful of business cards. “Feel free to use these.”

She took them and read: Capital City Venture Group. “From an old undercover assignment?”

“Real old.”

She eyed the name on the card. “Chris Udahl. That’s a good gender-neutral name. Works for me. But what about the phone number?”

“Rings to one of the cells in my desk. My voice mail will pick it up.”

“Still works?”

“Far as I know. If it doesn’t, who cares? This is a one-time-only visit to the set, right?”

“I sure as hell hope so. This whole water porn thing is …” She searched for the right word.

“Icky,” he offered.

She took her coat off the back of her chair and stuffed the business cards inside the pocket. “I’ll go home and change and drive over there right now. Get it over with.”

“Take a bureau car,” he said.

“Jeez,” she said, slipping her coat on. “You’re starting to sound just like Garcia.”

“Since you brought up his name … Aren’t you going to get permission from our ASAC for this little expedition to the nether-world?”

She still hadn’t briefed Garcia on the bums-in-the-basement fiasco. She’d save that treat for later. “I’ll give him a holler while I’m on the move.”

BERNADETTE CALLED Garcia on her cell while walking to her loft.

“How’d the visit with the shrink go?” he asked.

“He wouldn’t give me a thing.”

“No surprise. Patient privacy, right?”

“I think he’s more worried about getting sued by Klein’s family,” she said. “I left him my card, in case he changed his mind.”

She told him where she was headed next and why, and briefed him on the story she was using to gain access to the studio. Because she was afraid it would freak him out, she omitted the fact that Creed had actually set it up. Garcia was surprisingly receptive and offered to join her.

“Aren’t you busy pulling together the surveillance?” she asked.

“Everything’s set,” he said. “You’ve got the second shift. Since he’d recognize you, I figured late would be better. He should be all tucked in.”

“Who drew the short straw in partnering with me?”

“I did.”

She wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not. “Great,” she said evenly.

“I’ll meet you at this porn place,” he said. “We’ll say I’m another one of the players in this … What’s it called again?”

“Capital City Venture Group.”

“Why does that sound familiar?”

“Uh …”

“How did you come up with it?”

“Yeah—uh … I found some old cards in Creed’s desk.”

“Creed. I remember that sting.” Silence on his end. Then: “Did he—”

“Here’s the address,” she interrupted. “Oh, and don’t dress like a fed, Tony.”

SHE FOUND a forest-green suit in the back of her closet and tried it on with a cream-colored silk blouse and black pumps. The short skirt exposed more leg than she liked and the low-cut blouse revealed some cleavage, but the ensemble did make her appear less federal. To complete the nongovernmental look, she ran a bead of bronze gloss over her lips, dusted her cheeks with blush, and put on a gold chain. When she slipped back into her coat and leather gloves, however, she realized her clothing change had been for naught. Her outerwear screamed FBI. The Crown Vic would do the same.

She steered her Ford Ranger onto Shepard Road and glanced at the Mississippi River on her left, taking in the citrus-colored fall landscape while she had the chance. Autumn in Minnesota came and went in a heartbeat. In a couple of weeks everything would be brown and gray. Then winter would settle in for its interminable stay. She didn’t mind. She’d lived long enough in states that seemed to have minimal change from one season to the next.