Blind Spot (19 page)

She pushed her chair away from the table and stood up, ready for part two of her exercise: organizing the squares. She surveyed the loft, searching for the right canvas. The exposed brick that made up most of the loft’s walls wouldn’t work. The walls on either side of her front door were Sheetrock, however, and those would do nicely. To the right of the door, she picked out a spread of white in the middle of the wall.

She peeled the notes off the table and carried them over, a few at a time, to the blank wall—a vertical desktop of sorts. She lined them up on the Sheetrock, going from left to right, leaving an inch or so of blank space between the squares. She started at eye level and worked her way down to knee level. After they were all stuck to the wall, she moved them around and grouped them together into categories. The eighty-four squares came together in different groupings to form a handful of larger blocks. Suspect blocks. Victim blocks. Other blocks that came to her. The sum, Bernadette hoped, would become larger than the parts.

She backed away from the wall and stared at it. “Wait. That’s not right,” she muttered. She went back to the wall and switched two Post-its. She stepped back again. Planting her hands on her hips, she ordered the paper: “Talk to me.” She looked for holes in the case and searched for patterns. As with any case, some words jumped off the sheets and begged for attention. She’d learned over the years to take notice of annoying words—they were clues. Sometimes it helped to work it through with another agent, or just a person with whom she felt comfortable and talkative. She had no one like that in Minnesota. Not yet.

Still, someone she’d just met had offered to bend an ear. She folded her arms in front of her and tried to imagine how the conversation would go.

Bless me, Father, for I have a tough homicide case. It’s been two months since my last…

She laughed dryly, took a step toward the wall, and raised her arms to shuffle some more squares around. That’s when she noticed what she’d done. How she’d arranged the yellow slips of paper so there was a vertical white space of wall slicing down the middle of the yellow, and another bar of white cutting horizontally through the top third of the Post-its.

The intersecting lines formed a cross.

Smack in the middle of the cross, where the white lines intersected, was one yellow square of paper. She didn’t remember slapping that particular note on the wall, and in fact, couldn’t recall writing the three words themselves. She didn’t know their meaning relative to her investigation. Still, there they were, penned by her hand:
Life for life.

Nineteen

A knock diverted Bernadette’s attention from the Sheetrock cross. She knew who was at the door. Before she moved away from the wall, she quickly rearranged a few notes to hide the religious symbol. She didn’t need her boss shipping her off to the loony bin.

She yanked open the door and found Garcia standing in the hallway, a glass casserole pan in his hands and a stack of file folders tucked in his armpit. Weaving around her, he went inside. “Hot, hot, hot.” He spotted the kitchen and made a beeline for it.

“There’s a trivet on the counter,” she said after him.

He set down the pan, dropped the files next to it, turned on the faucet, and put his hands under the water. “Didn’t think it was still that hot. Left the oven mitts in the car. Halfway down the hall, my fingers started frying.”

Bernadette went over to the pan and peered inside, seeing something swimming in a sauce and topped with melted cheese. “Smells fantastic.”

He shut off the faucet and wiped his hands on the thighs of his jeans. “Decided to whip up something homemade instead of doing the take-out thing. Enchilada hot dish.”

One side of Bernadette’s mouth turned up. Hot dish, the Minnesota staple. She was definitely home. Her eyes traveled to the stack of folders. She told herself they’d better eat first, because once she started digging into the files, she wouldn’t want to take time for anything else. Bernadette opened a set of cupboards over the counter, took down a pair of dinner plates, and set them on the counter. She pulled open a drawer under the counter and dug out a couple of forks and a serving spoon.

Garcia ran his eyes around her loft. “Looks like a tornado touched down in here.”

“Tell me about it.” She filled some glasses with water, set them on the counter, and shut off the tap.

He zoned in on a flash of chrome and red that was parked in a corner of the condo. Clothes were draped over the seat and handles. He went over to the bike and pulled off a couple of sweatshirts so he could get a better look. “Honda. Motocross?”

“I use it as more of a trail bike.”

“Nice.” He tossed the shirts back on the bike. “Looks big for you, though.”

“I can handle it.” She carried the water glasses over to the table, set them down, and went back to the counter to scoop hot dish onto the plates. She carried the plates and forks over to the table. “This looks great. Was so busy unpacking, I forgot about eating.”

He turned away from the bike and shoved his hands in his pockets. “I can help you later.”

“You’ve got better things to do with your Sunday.”

“Not really. Sad, isn’t it?”

She laughed. “You said it. I didn’t.”

Garcia stepped over to the table and pulled out a chair. “I like your kitchen set.”

She had a round oak table with a fat pedestal base, circled by four ladder-back chairs. “My folks’ furniture from the farm.” She pulled out the chair across from him and sat down. After he took his seat, she started attacking the food. She stabbed a piece of chicken, blew on it, and popped it into her mouth.

“How is it?” asked Garcia, his fork poised.

“Excellent,” she said in between chews. “Thank you so much for bringing it.”

“It’s a treat being able to cook for someone for a change.”

“Know what you mean. A drag just cooking for one.”

He eyed her face for a few seconds. “You look tired. Sure this is okay? I can leave the pan here and take off.”

“Last night wiped me out, but I’ll be okay. Food will help. So will some company.” She took another bite.

He shoveled a forkful into his mouth. Without looking up from his plate, he asked: “Your husband—how long has he been gone?”

She picked up her glass and took a sip of water. “Three years this September.” She set down the glass and to her own amazement, told him details she usually avoided discussing. “Suicide. He hanged himself with his own rigging,” she said, running her index finger around the rim of her water glass. “We were anchored in the middle of nowhere. I had to cut him down. Get us home. I’ll never set foot on another sailboat.”

“You sold it?”

“Sunk it,” she said, satisfaction salting her voice.

He didn’t say anything for several seconds. The only sound in the apartment came from a Sinatra CD, the volume turned just high enough to be audible. “Come Fly with Me.” Poking his food with his fork, Garcia asked: “How long were you married?”

“Thirteen years.” She picked up her fork and did her own poking. “We met at college. Got married right after we graduated.”

“Same with me and my wife,” he said. “Right out of school.”

Bernadette speared a piece of chicken and put it in her mouth. While she chewed, she thought about how to ask her question. Instead of making a query, she decided to put it as a statement. “I figured you were a bachelor.”

“A widower. For five years, ten months, and…” He looked at his watch. “…six days.”

“I’m sorry,” Bernadette said in a low voice.

For the first time since he’d opened the personal conversation, he looked her in the eyes. “She’d just gotten off work—she was a nurse at an old folks’ home—and was driving back to our place. Another car sideswiped her. Ran her off the road and into a ditch and kept going.”

In her search for sympathetic words, she offered: “My sister was killed in a car accident.”

“But, unlike Maddy’s case, they never caught the son-of-a-bitch who killed my wife.”

Garcia had not only gone back far enough into her past to find out about her sister and how she’d died, he’d even picked up on her twin’s nickname. “You know about Maddy. You’ve done some digging.”

He took a bite of food and washed it down before he answered. “I like to know my people.” He set the glass down. “To that end, why did your husband do it?”

“He didn’t leave a note, but it was depression.” Even as she answered, she wondered why he’d asked such an intensely personal question so early in their working relationship; most people on the job saved the “why” question until they got to know her. The reason for his probing suddenly dropped into her head, and she looked up from her plate with narrowed eyes. “You don’t have to worry about me, if that’s what you’re thinking. It’s not like it’s contagious.”

“If you ever need to talk,” he said evenly. “That’s all.”

“I’m fine.”

“Good,” he said, returning his attention to his hot dish.

He seemed relieved to have gotten past some personal talk he apparently thought he had to have with her. She wondered if it was some new touchy-feely garbage the bureau was requiring of its bosses. Perhaps Garcia simply required it of himself. She switched to work talk. “Tell me more about my officemate.”

“Creed. Good guy. Good agent. Like I said before, a little odd.” As if cuing in on the word “odd,” Garcia looked up from his plate and stared at the paper-covered wall across the room. Pointing at the notes with his fork, he asked: “What the hell is that all about?”

She cut a tortilla with the side of her fork. “Working the case.”

“What about…”

His voice trailed off. She knew what was on his mind.
What about that weird-ass sight of yours?
Before he regrouped to ask, she answered: “I use traditional and nontraditional methods.”

Garcia dumped a gob of casserole into his mouth and chewed while staring at her notes. He put down his fork, picked up his napkin, dragged it across his mouth, and dropped the wad on the table. He pushed his chair back and stood up. Nodding toward the wall, he asked: “May I?”

“Go for it.” As she watched him go over to the notes, she wondered what his reaction would be. Her Post-it charts weren’t exactly FBI protocol. Then again, the big shots in D.C. wouldn’t know what to make of an ASAC who took Sunday-night hot dish to the home of an underling; it probably violated some federal rule or policy. In his quirky way, Garcia was himself a renegade.

He stopped two yards from the wall and took in the overall design. An art critic studying the lines of a sculpture. He took two steps closer, and two more. He clasped his hands behind his back, bent forward, and started reading the scribbles on individual squares. An appraiser looking for a signature of authenticity. “Fascinating,” he said without turning around. “So some of these notes deal with your regular footwork, and some deal with your other method.”

Other method.
She smiled to herself and said to his back: “Right.”

His eyes locked on one square in particular. “Says here, ‘Get hospital personnel files.’ What’s that about?”

“We’ll get into that later.”

“I see we have something of a physical description,” he said, pointing to another block of boxes. “Too bad we can’t get more detailed.”

“I figure he’s a doctor or a nurse or maybe a lab tech,” she said. “How about that for more detail?” She stabbed a hunk of chicken and popped it into her mouth.

“What?” Garcia stood straight and spun around to face her.

She chewed and swallowed, set down her fork, and picked up her napkin. Dabbing at the corners of her mouth, she said: “You heard me.”

He pivoted back around and ran his eyes over the notes for a couple of minutes. “Help me out here.” His voice carried an edge. “I’m not seeing it.”

He’s defensive because his wife was a nurse,
Bernadette thought. She went over to her boss and stood on his right. Extending her arm, she pointed. “There. I grouped them together.”

Garcia read the collection of notes.
Reached out for sick woman? Woman’s lover? Read Numbers. Read another book.
“I’m confused.”

“I
saw
him,” she said, emphasizing
saw
so Garcia would understand her meaning. “I saw the killer—last night, at a hospital downtown. He was with a patient. She was in bed. I recorded his movements. His behavior. That little bit of a physical description.”