Blind Rage (31 page)

“That’s not what this maniac is after. He’s not into it for the glory. It’s all about his sexual gratification.”

“I’ve seen some freaky stuff in all my years of law enforcement. Torture and sex. Cannibalism and sex. Satanic worship and sex. Rottweilers and sex.” He shook his head. “But this water and sex…”

“It’s not just water and sex. It’s about
drowning
and sex.” She felt her skin crawl under the terry cloth. Almost unconsciously, she pulled her robe tighter around her body. “Really, if you think about it, that old nautical tale about those sirens or whatever they were. They lured sailors to their deaths. Isn’t that about drowning and sex? This is the flip side of that.”

“A man luring women into the water.” Garcia turned and looked at the river through the tall windows. “I hate to ask.”

“Go ahead.”

“If Matt did it, do you think he bumped you into the river to get off on it?”

Her upper lip curled. “I wish you hadn’t asked, but I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“He didn’t stay around to watch. I think he knocked me in to get rid of me, or because he was furious with me. Both.”

His brow furrowed. “You really think he’s the one who knocked you in?”

“The more we talk about him, the more I want time to find out,” she said. “I haven’t ruled out the prof or the shrink as players in this. But I want to surprise little brother at his boat and check out his reaction. He may have tried to steer me away from Luke because I was getting too close to home.”

He walked into the middle of the living room and turned around. “The water thing. Besides the fact that he hangs out on the river, which is fascinating as hell in light of your theory, any other indications he’s got some kind of water fetish? Drowning fetish?”

She remembered the way Matthew had stood along the rails that night, staring out onto the water for a long time. It had seemed such an odd thing for a man out walking alone to do. Garcia would pencil in that observation under the “feelings” column, however, and summarily dismiss it. She left her resting spot against the windows and walked over to him. “Just get the cops to sit on that stuff about the witness and his description.”

“For how long?”

“Until I can pay a visit to my favorite drinking buddy. Ask him if he wants to go for a swim. Maybe he’ll make me breakfast on the river tomorrow.”

“Take your gun.”

“You think the Glock is okay after going into the river with me?”

“Hell, yes. I’ll put in for a new one if you want, but shit. People fire it under water, which is a real dumb-ass idea. I heard about this one dude who put his Glock in a bucket of Drano, just to see what would happen. It came out good as new. He ran a hundred rounds of ammo coated with Gorilla Glue and had no failures.”

“Give me a break. I read about that online.”

“You don’t believe it?”

“The part about the Drano maybe, but not the Gorilla Glue.” She lifted his wrist and checked his watch. “Time for you to go home, unless you plan on sleeping here.”

“Best offer I’ve had today,” he said.

Feeling her face heat up, she let go of his wrist. “I was joking.”

“Seriously, are you okay by yourself tonight? You’ve been through the wringer. I could—” His eyes fell on her sofa.

“Oh. Right. Great idea.” She took a step back from him. “I can’t imagine anything more distracting than having you right downstairs. I’d never get any sleep.”

His brows arched. “Distracting?”

“You probably snore. You look like the type that snores.”

He took a step toward her. “You’re right. I do snore.”

They stood inches apart, staring at each other for several seconds. Bernadette finally broke the silence. “Well…”

“Yeah.” He took his coat off the kitchen chair and put it on.

They walked to the door together. “Thanks for pulling my backside out of the hot coals. Again.”

“That’s what I’m here for.”

As soon as the door snapped shut behind him, she made a beeline for the whiskey bottle to pour one last shot before bed. For a lot of reasons, it was going to be a long and sleepless night.

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?”