Blind Spot (20 page)

“Okay. So how does that get us to…a medical person? You saw him with a scalpel, or wearing scrubs, or what?”

Bernadette found it interesting that Garcia at that moment grudgingly accepted her sight, but apparently had problems with what she deduced from it. Was it because his wife was a nurse, or because of her missteps on past cases? “Forget my goofy notes. Let’s finish our hot dish.”

He didn’t respond; he’d resumed his study of her Post-its. His shoulders were squarer this time; she’d gotten his attention and maybe pissed him off.

“Tony?” she said to his back. She couldn’t remember the last ASAC she’d called by first name so readily. She tried it again. Louder. “Tony? How about it? Chow’s getting cold.”

Unfolding his arms, he turned away from the wall and went back to the table.

Garcia insisted she sit while he cleared the table. As he stood over her and reached to pick up her plate, she noticed his ID bracelet—heavy silver chain-link, with
Anthony
written in script on the rectangular nameplate. “Beautiful bracelet.”

“Gift from my wife.” He unsnapped the bracelet, slipped it off, and turned the nameplate over so Bernadette could see what was written on the back.
I am a Catholic. In case of an accident, please call a priest.
“She always worried about me on the job.” He cleared his throat while fumbling to put the bracelet back on his wrist.

Call a priest.

That reminded her. She glanced at Garcia’s watch while he fooled with his bracelet. She was missing five o’clock mass at the cathedral. She felt guilty about it, but at the same time told herself she’d made no promises. Then the priest’s jab came back to her.

Maybe
again. You like that word, don’t you?

She’d make up for missing mass by meeting with the Franciscan Wednesday night.

It was late by the time Garcia left her place. Bernadette was just starting the dishes when she was startled by the sound of someone banging on her door. Her guest was coming back for his pan. She was going to wash it, but if he wanted it that bad, he could have it. She picked it up off the counter and opened the door.

Augie smiled and glanced down at the dirty dish. “What’s for dinner?”

“Enchilada hot dish. Past tense.” She opened the door wider.

He walked through with Oscar—sans leash—trailing behind. Spotting the glasses and plates on the counter, Augie asked: “Did we have a date this evening?”

“No, we had hot dish with our boss.”

Augie crossed her living-room area and headed for her windows. “Hot dish. That’s a uniquely Minnesotan way to advance your career.”

“He brought it, not that it’s any of your business.” She closed the door and went back to the kitchen with the pan. She opened her dishwasher and started loading it. “If I were to use food, I would impress him with my Aunt Virg’s recipe for molded Jell-O. Three layers, including a lime one containing crushed pineapple and cream cheese.”

“Yum.” He glanced outside. “Nice view of the parking lot across the street.”

She stood straight, a dirty dish in her hand. “I can see the river.”

“My view is better.”

She felt something on her shin and looked down. Oscar had his front paws up on her leg and was licking the plate in her hand. She tried to shake him off but he wouldn’t budge. She gave up and set the plate down on the floor. “Don’t you ever feed this poor animal?”

Augie spun around to answer and noticed her Post-it wall. “What’s that mess?” He started back across the room for a closer look.

She intercepted him halfway, stepping in front of him to block his path. “Let’s pick this up another time, neighbor. I’m getting ready to hit the hay.”

He looked over her head at the wall. “Working a case the old-fashioned way, huh? Want to bounce anything off me? I’ve got a lot of insight into the criminal mind.”

She put her hand on his shoulder and started steering him to the door. “I’ll bet you do.”

He put his hand over hers. She tried to jerk her hand away, but he grabbed it and held it between both of his. “You’re hot.”

She yanked her hand out of his grasp. “And you feel like a block of ice.”

“Hot and cold.” Oscar padded between them, and Augie scooped him up, cradling the dog in the crook of his arm. “We’ve got that ‘opposites attract’ thing going on.”

She pulled open the door. “I never did buy into that theory.”

He hesitated before stepping into the hall, his eyes traveling back to the yellow squares. “A cross. Is that significant to your case?”

She’d covered up the intersecting bars of white. How had he spotted it through the jumble of paper? Her eyes met his, and she said evenly: “You’re scaring me, counselor. I think you’d better go back upstairs and call it a night before you spread whatever it is you’ve got.”

“I’m the one who should be nervous.” He walked through the door. “People who cover their walls with paper scraps end up the subject of those cable-TV crime shows.”

“Good night.” She closed the door after him.

Twenty

Jerry Fontaine clawed another layer of toilet paper off the roll, blew his nose, and dabbed his eyes. He tossed the soiled tissue onto the coffee table in front of him. The wad joined an ocean of discarded pop cans, crumpled fast-food sacks, dirty paper napkins, and empty Kleenex boxes—the flotsam of a family dashed against the rocks by the loss of its wife and mother. The tabletop was a microcosm of the rest of the house.

Anna had been a quiet and efficient housewife—rather like a high-quality upright vacuum—and the first thing Jerry and the boys noticed after each of her hospitalizations was the immediate increase in clutter. Objects suddenly started appearing on each and every surface, as if dropped by evil gnomes when the humans had their backs turned. Dirty socks and boxers and tee shirts materialized on the bedroom floors. Dirty dishes and empty cereal boxes planted themselves on the kitchen counter. Cans of shaving cream, tubes of toothpaste, and strands of used dental floss littered the top of the bathroom vanity. Newspapers and magazines and junk mail landed pretty much everywhere. Each time Anna returned from the hospital, she was able to restore order by magic. Her very presence seemed to will away the mess.

Now there would be no magic, because there would be no return.

Jerry dropped the roll of toilet paper on the floor and picked up the phone. He glanced down at the legal pad resting on his lap—the only uncluttered horizontal surface in the front room. Anna had drawn up the names and numbers before going into the hospital this last time. Jerry had dutifully phoned family and friends and the mortuary. The florist and their parish priest. He stared at the one number not yet checked off the list. He didn’t want to make the call, but Anna would be pissed if the bastard wasn’t personally notified. He took a deep breath, sat up straight, and punched in the number. As the phone rang, he prayed to God that a machine would answer.

His prayer wasn’t answered.

“Hello.”

“Hi. It’s Jerry. Jerry Fontaine.”

“Is it Anna?”

Jerry put his hand over the mouthpiece and swallowed hard; he didn’t want to break down over the phone. “Early this morning.”

“I’m sorry.”

“She’d want you at the services. At least the wake, if you can manage.” Jerry wished he wouldn’t make it to anything. He’d had enough of the crusader and his futile cause.

“Any idea when the visitation is going to be? Where?”

“Four to eight on Tuesday. That funeral home on West Seventh Street. The one on the corner that looks like a medieval fortress.”

“Tuesday…That’s tomorrow. So soon.”

“Funeral mass is Wednesday morning. It’s at a small church south of town. I don’t expect anyone but family to make it to that.” Jerry paused, wondering if the guy got the hint. Then he put more bluntly: “Burial’s gonna be
private.
”

“That’s all pretty quick.”

“She wanted it that way.” Jerry had another thought and cleared his throat before he asked. He struggled to make his voice sound casual. “Oh. By the way. Anything come of that FBI woman? She contact you or anything?”

“No, no. Like I said, you must have misunderstood the conversation. I’m sure that woman wasn’t even a cop.” A moment of silence, then: “You didn’t ask anyone at the hospital about it, did you?”

“No. Too much else going on.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it.”

Jerry despised the arrogant tone, but he had to admit the guy was probably correct. If there was an issue, the FBI would have made contact by now. “Yeah. You’re right.” Jerry sighed. “Gotta go. Gotta make some more calls. The florist and the mortuary and all that.”

“I’ll say a prayer.”

“You do that,” Jerry said abruptly, and hung up. He sank back into the couch with relief.

He ran a hand through his thinning hair and wondered where the boys were in the mess that used to be their tidy split-level. Probably playing video games or watching television in their rooms. Jerry figured they were cried out for the moment. Fresh bawling jags awaited them at the wake and the funeral. The burial would be the worst. Then they would have to pick up their house and get on with their lives, because Anna would have wanted it that way. Anna liked things kept tidy.

In a way, his wife’s fondness for order had brought the snake into their lives. The man had dragged the Fontaines and other grieving families to one legislative hearing after another in a quest to restore moral order to their world. They’d repeatedly told their stories, bared their souls to rooms filled with strangers, and answered asinine questions from idiot elected officials. At his insistence, they’d vigorously backed a proposal by a Republican senator that would have put a constitutional amendment reauthorizing the death penalty before voters. Jerry had to admit the idea was a long time coming; the state had abolished capital punishment in 1911. Problem was, a majority of lawmakers in both the House and the Senate had to approve putting it on the ballot, and neither body had the balls or the votes to let the people decide. Minnesota would remain one of a dozen states that would never allow the punishment that fit the most heinous crime.

Even after the effort went down in flames—leaving all the families feeling used and abused as much by their
leader
as by the politicians—Anna continued to idolize the snake. Sometimes Jerry wondered if his wife had cheated on him and slept with the slimy creep. He glanced down at the legal pad again, as if one last look would provide the answer to that nagging question. All Jerry saw before him were a series of names and phone numbers penned in Anna’s elegant handwriting, followed by sloppy checkmarks made in his own shaky hand. He scratched a check next to the bastard’s name and looked at his palm. Stained with ink—the pen was leaking. “Figures,” he spat, and tossed the pen and pad on the table. The impact knocked a half-empty Coke can onto the floor. Jerry watched while the brown liquid foamed and settled into the beige carpet. The cat stepped across a copy of
Sports Illustrated,
the telephone bill, and a grocery-store flyer to get to the cola.