Blind Rage (45 page)

“What makes a good news story?”

“This does.”

“Why is that?”

“Neat pictures,” he said as flames shot through the roof.

For twenty minutes, they stood and watched wordlessly while firefighters ran back and forth with their hoses and axes. The sun hadn’t yet come up, but the entire block was bathed in light, an unearthly red glow cast by the blaze and the emergency vehicles.

“Do you believe in hell?” she asked, her eyes glued to the frantic ballet.

“Yeah, I do,” he said.

“So do I,” she said.

Chapter 43

TWO BODIES WERE CARRIED OUT OF THE SMOKING SHELL.
The agents intercepted the twin gurneys as they were being wheeled to the Ramsey County medical examiner’s hearse parked on the street. Garcia whipped out his badge and showed it to the ME investigator. “Can we have a last look-see?”

“Sure thing.” The investigator nodded to the men at the head of the gurneys. They positioned themselves at the top of the carts, their backs blocking the view of the photographers and nosy neighbors. Each man reached down and slowly unzipped his bag partway.

Bernadette and Garcia looked from one sooty corpse to the other. Luke had put a bullet through his own temple, but not before nailing Matthew in the chest. The elder brother had looked after his younger sibling to the end.

“We’re good,” Garcia told the gurney crew. “One of our people will meet you over at the lab for the autopsy.”

“You know about the letter?” asked the ME investigator.

“CSI showed us,” said Bernadette.

While his men zipped the bags up over the bodies, the ME investigator took out his notebook and clicked his pen. “Can you help us out on locating next of kin?”

“My agent tells me the doctor’s spouse and children are at their Scottsdale place,” said Garcia. “Elizabeth is the wife’s name.”

“Lucky for them they weren’t home,” said the investigator, scribbling. He shoved the pad and pen back into his jacket. “Wasn’t the bureau involved in a bad deal last night, too? Some weird-ass business with a fella getting shot and then going off that tower on the West Side? I didn’t get the call, but I heard one of your agents…” His voice trailed off as he got a good look at Bernadette’s eyes.

Garcia and Bernadette stared at him, and he clamped his mouth closed. Without another word, he and the gurney crew turned around and finished their trek to the hearse.

“I wonder what he heard about ‘one of your agents,’” Bernadette said out of the side of her mouth.

“Who gives a shit?” snapped Garcia.

“Right,” said Bernadette, watching as Luke and Matthew were loaded into the hearse. They’d be sharing the morgue with Charles Araignee.

“NOW WHAT?”
asked Bernadette as she and Garcia walked toward their cars.

He nodded to an empty bus stop. “Let’s sit down for a minute.”

They went over to the bench and dropped onto the wooden seat. “I’m beat,” she said.

He stretched his legs out in front of him. “Me, too.”

In a front yard across the road, a woman raked leaves into an orange garbage bag while a little boy in a cape ran circles around her. “When’s Halloween?” Bernadette asked.

“Why do you keep asking that?” Garcia asked with irritation. “It’s soon. A week or so.”

“I guess I’d better get some candy.”

“Don’t bother,” he said. “As far as I know, kids don’t trick-or-treat downtown.”

“That’s too bad. I like Halloween. We used to go to a barn dance when we were kids, with costumes and everything.”

“I don’t have any hay on hand, but you can come over to my place and pass out treats if you want. Tip back a few beers and grill some brats while we’re at it. Make a night of it.”

“I’d like that,” she said.

“Great.”

“Do I have to wear a costume?”

“Not unless you really want to,” he said.

She stretched out her own legs and smiled, resisting the urge to make a crack about coming as a French maid. She cleared her throat. “Uh, I hate to ask…”

“Go ahead.”

“That thing at the tower. How much trouble am I in?”

“I’m gonna try like hell to keep this away from the OPR,” he said, referring to the Office of Professional Responsibility. “The OPR gets its mitts on it, you could be talking some serious beach time.”

“A suspension?”

“Do you want me to lie to you?”

“Yes, please,” she said meekly.

“Let’s talk about this later,” he said.

She liked that strategy. Bolting up, she announced, “I’m starving. Let’s go get something to eat.”

He got up off the seat. “How about a joint on Grand Avenue?”

A gust of wind slammed her, and she hunched her shoulders against it. “I don’t care where we go as long as it’s heated.”

“The one with the walleye basket on the menu. I can’t remember the name of the place, but there’s a neon fish in the front window.”

“Tavern on Grand. It’s between Dale and St. Albans, right?”

“Right.”

“Meet you there,” she said.

“My treat,” he said, and dashed across the street to his car.

WITH ITS
log cabin decor—made complete by a chandelier constructed of antlers—Tavern on Grand was the quintessential Minnesota restaurant. They were well ahead of the lunch rush, so she and Garcia had their pick of tables. They took a booth in a dark corner, with Bernadette’s seat facing the wall. She practically ripped the menu out of the server’s hands.

“I’ll give you a minute,” said the waitress, a pretty twenty-something with long black hair and wearing a short black skirt. She moved on to another table.

“What are you getting?” Bernadette asked Garcia.

“The walleye,” he said, unbuttoning his coat. “It’s the house specialty. Comes with the works: potato, coleslaw, roll. They have this jalapeño tartar sauce that is out of this world.”

“I’ll get the same,” she said, setting down the menu.

He slid out of the booth, took off his trench, and dropped it onto the bench. “I’ve gotta use the head. Order for me if she comes back.”

She unzipped her leather bomber jacket and pulled off her gloves. “What do you want to drink?”

“Pop. Any kind, as long as it’s not diet.”

After he left, she continued perusing the menu. She might want an appetizer. The crab artichoke dip sounded great, and so did the stuffed mushrooms and the potato skins. She turned in her seat and searched for the server. She was on the other side of the room taking orders from a table filled with flirty young men. Bernadette returned her attention to the menu. Maybe instead of the walleye, she’d get the ribs.

“The jalapeño tartar sauce is to die for.”

“I know,” she said, looking up from the menu at the man standing next to the table. As he slid into the booth to sit across from her, she inhaled sharply and felt all the warmth drain from her body. Leaning across the table, she whispered, “What are you doing here? How did you get here? How can you be here?”

Creed looked at her with mock innocence. “What do you mean?”

“This isn’t your haunt. This is miles from downtown, nowhere near our office.”

“I used to eat here. Our ASAC’s right, by the way. The walleye is hard to beat.” He nodded at the menu sitting on the table between them. “The New York strip isn’t too shabby either.”

“How can you be here?”

He threw his arms up and rested them over the top of the bench. “Haven’t you figured it out? That pile of concrete on Robert Street isn’t what’s haunted.”

Looking over at the waitress, Bernadette was relieved to see her still occupied with the other table. She turned back around and hissed, “What are you saying?”

He tipped his head toward her. “You’re haunted, missy. You’re my connection to the land of the living.”

She didn’t want to know anything more; all she wanted was for him to leave before Garcia returned. “Save it for the office.”

“You don’t seem very appreciative of the fact that this could open doors for you.” He grinned slyly. “You’ve got a friend in high places.”

“Please.”

“Let me say one word. Well, a couple of words. Charlene Araignee.”

She sat frozen.

“Write it down,” he said. “You’ll have to go back about thirty years or so.”

She swiveled her head and saw Garcia heading to the table. Snapping her head back around, she whispered, “I’m begging you. Please go
now
.”

By the time Garcia reached the booth, Creed was gone. Sliding onto the bench, Garcia scrutinized her face from across the table. “What’s wrong?”

Training her eyes on the menu, she mumbled, “What? Nothing…nothing’s wrong.” She couldn’t tell him what had just happened; a ghost in the cellar was one thing, but how could Creed be popping up in a bar in the middle of the day to chat?

Garcia retrieved his menu. “You okay?”

She looked away from him and glanced over at the server. “She hasn’t taken our order yet.”

Garcia raised a hand, and the waitress came up to the table. “What looks good, folks?”

“Cat?”

“You go first,” she said, keeping her eyes down.

Garcia ordered the walleye and a cola. She went with a bowl of wild rice soup.

“Is that it?” asked the waitress.

“Yeah. Thanks.” Bernadette wrapped her arms around herself.

“How about something warm to drink?” asked the server.

“Tea. Hot tea would be great.”

“I thought you were hungry,” Garcia said as the server left with the order.

Rubbing her arms over her jacket, she said, “I think I’m coming down with something. I’ve got a headache and the chills.”

“Want to cancel the soup and take off?”

“No, no. I think I’ve got some Tylenol in my jacket.” She made a show of digging in her pockets when under the table, she was writing down the name Creed had given her.

“Take the rest of the day off, Cat.”

“I have one thing I need to do at the office, and then I’ll go home,” she said, folding the slip of paper on her lap and tucking it away.

“Find the Tylenol?”

“Uh…no. Don’t worry about it.” She put her hands on the tabletop and smiled.

“UNBELIEVABLE,” SHE
breathed as she set down the phone. Then she picked it up again to call Garcia.

“Why aren’t you home?” he asked.

“Tony, I know who Charles drowned. It was one twin.”

“Who?”

“His twin sister, Charlene.”

“Holy crap.”

“They would have been—I don’t know—six or so. Charlene supposedly fell into their family’s pool. Charles was found sitting frozen in a lawn chair, staring at her body. Didn’t get help or anything. Police report attributed his behavior to shock.”

“Was he really in shock, or did he let her drown? Do you think he even pushed her in?”

“Who knows?”

“How in the hell did you come up with this?”

“A hunch.” She looked over at Creed’s desk. He wasn’t there to enjoy the moment, and she felt guilty for taking credit.

“So that was
before
he watched the sick stuff at the VonHader house?”

“Yeah. Watching Ruth nearly drown and getting off on it, that pretty much sealed the deal. It’s a miracle he waited until Ruth died to start acting out.”

“Well, we haven’t gone over old drowning cases yet.”

“Yeah. You’re right.”

“Good work. This should help soften the problems around the tower mess.”

She smiled to herself. Creed had bailed her out again, the spooky SOB. “That might be why my connection to Charles was so strong,” said Bernadette. “He was half of a twin set, like me.”