Blind Rage (32 page)

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.