Blind Spot (24 page)

In the blackness of the bedroom, a muscular arm snaked around her midriff. “Come back to my bed.”

“I have to get up early,” she whispered, hugging her clothing to her naked front.

“I don’t care.” He kissed the side of her neck and pressed his front against her back as his hands moved under her bundle and cupped her breasts. “Stay.”

She could feel his erection. “You don’t play fair, and I really have to go.”

“Just a little longer. Lie with me a little longer. Please.”

The tone of his voice stabbed her heart. He sounded as lonely and hungry as she could be on her worst nights. She unfolded her arms and let her clothes drop to the floor. He scooped her up. She twined her arms around his neck as he carried her back to bed. “Don’t let me fall asleep again. I have to wake up in my own bed.”

“I’ll carry you there myself,” he said, setting her down amid the blankets and pillows and tangled sheets.

Twenty-five

A hangover. She hadn’t had one of those in a while. At least Augie had made good on his promise and deposited her in her own bed. She crawled out of it Wednesday morning with throbbing temples and a queasy stomach. With her eyes half shut, she hobbled downstairs and into the bathroom.

A hot shower took the edge off her headache, but did nothing to dilute the memory of his hands and mouth all over her. She prayed she hadn’t made a horrible mistake by sleeping with him. In the same instant, she hoped it wouldn’t be the last time. He’d been an amazing lover.

She reluctantly pulled on some work clothes—navy-blue slacks and a white blouse topped by a navy blazer—and headed out the door. She checked her watch as she hustled down the sidewalk and saw it was not quite seven-thirty. She had time to grab a coffee and a pastry on her way to the cellar.

While she stood in line at the café, she thought about her game plan for work. No way in hell was she going to tell her boss she’d been followed out to her car during the wake. Nothing good would come of it, Bernadette concluded. He’d be furious with her over something, be it failing to identify the suspect at the visitation, trying to apprehend the guy solo, or letting the killer get away from her.

Garcia was leaning against the edge of her desk waiting for her, one of her FBI commendations in his hand. He offered her a dry greeting as she walked through the office door. “Good afternoon, Agent Saint Clare.”

She had her coffee cup in one hand and a morsel of Danish in the other. She didn’t know what to do with the pastry except pop it her mouth and swallow. After taking a sip of coffee to wash it down, she coughed and sputtered a greeting: “Hey.”

His face wearing the disgusted expression of someone who’d just discovered a hair in his soup, Garcia held up the plaque with two fingers. “Found this in the garbage.”

“My mistake.” She took another sip of coffee and thought:
Jesus. He digs through my trash. Plus, he said “Agent Saint Clare.” Gonna be a bad day in the basement.

“Found some other
mistakes
in the trash.” He set the award down on her desk. “How’d it go last night?
See
anyone you liked?”

The way he’d said
see
—she’d pretend she didn’t catch the dig. Dropping her coffee cup into a wastebasket, she said evenly: “Didn’t observe anyone suspicious.”

“The husband?”

“Not our man.”

He suddenly noticed her empty hands. “Where’re those files I dropped off at your place?”

“On my kitchen table. Was gonna go through them at home after I straightened up in here.”

“Let me see if I got this right. You were gonna fix up the office and then go home to do your office work?”

She realized how ridiculous that sounded, but didn’t know what else to say except “Yes.”

He picked the plaque up and examined it while talking to her. “You don’t want to be here, do you?”

She buried her hands in her blazer pockets. “I told you. Basement’s fine. St. Paul is—”

He cut her off. “I mean the bureau.”

Her eyes widened. “What? I want to be with the bureau. I love this job.”

“Sure you do,” he said tiredly. He carried the plaque over to the wastebasket, dropped the award inside, and stepped around her to get to the door.

She said to his back, “I do.”

He put his hand on the knob and said, without turning around, “Finish up with those files by tomorrow, Agent Saint Clare. I don’t care
where
you read them. Take them into the damn john if you want.” He yanked open the door and walked out.

“I
do
like my job,” she said to the closed door.

Bernadette ate lunch at a downtown deli, hardly tasting the sandwich. She went home and sat at the kitchen table, sifting through the remainder of the Archer folders and scratching notes. She told herself she’d tackle the Olson pile the next day. She had trouble concentrating, and found herself rereading entire pages because she couldn’t remember what she’d just seen. Garcia’s words combined with her fumble at the wake left her feeling insecure about her work and her sight. Her decision to get drunk and sleep with Augie didn’t leave her feeling any better about her personal life.

She really needed to see the Franciscan that night—if for no other reason than to hear someone validate her existence on the planet. Any good priest could do that.

Twenty-six

She was surprised to find the front doors open but not a soul in the pews. The church was dimly lit, making Bernadette wonder if the Franciscan had forgotten about their midweek rendezvous. She decided to give him a chance and wait around a while.

She took a back bench, off to one side. Bernadette shuffled into the pew and went down on her knees, unzipping her bomber but leaving on her gloves. She folded her hands together and propped them on the back of the bench in front of her. The church was so quiet she was sure she could hear her own heart beating. She rested her forehead on top of her hands and closed her eyes. Reflecting on what had brought her to this place, she replayed bits of conversation in her head.

Come back to my bed.

You don’t play fair, and I really have to go.

Just a little longer. Lie with me a little longer. Please.

You don’t want to be here, do you?

I want to be with the bureau, I love this job.

Sure you do.

I do…I do…I do.

“I do,” she said out loud—more loudly than she’d intended.

She opened her eyes and lifted her head off her hands. She half expected someone to shush her for being disorderly in church, but she remained the lone congregant. She glanced at a saint standing against the wall, just across the aisle from where she knelt. He was frozen in a niche and cloaked in shadows, but she saw enough detail to know he was St. Patrick. She recognized the staff in his hand, and could see the snakes writhing at his feet.
Help me slay my serpents, St. Patrick,
she silently petitioned.

She was startled by the sound of footsteps and looked toward the noise. With the grace and flutter of a wind-tossed leaf, his robed figure suddenly glided onto the altar. In one practiced, fluid motion, he simultaneously genuflected and made the sign of the cross. He was still wearing the hood pulled over his head; that couldn’t be regulation for his order. She speculated that this particular man had embraced this manner of dress and calling to hide from the world. She smiled bitterly to herself. An insecure priest counseling an insecure woman. Which cliché applied? “The blind leading the blind”? “It takes one to know one”?

Bernadette bent her head as if she were immersed in prayer. She watched him out of the corner of her eye as he floated down an aisle on the opposite side of the church. He went to the front doors. She stole a look over her shoulder and saw him turn the dead bolt on the door.
Why is he locking the two of us inside?

She quickly snapped her head back around and faced the front, looking down but keeping her eyes wide open. He hurried back up the aisle, again genuflected and crossed himself on the altar, and went into the sacristy without acknowledging her presence. Perhaps she’d hidden herself too well. Besides, she’d sought him out, and it was rude to make him traverse the church to come to her. She slid out of the pew and headed closer to the altar, stopping at a pew in the second row. Like all Catholics—practicing or not—she shied away from sitting in the very front. She slid between the benches and again went down on her knees, this time making the sign of the cross before tipping her head.

He walked out onto the altar again. With his back to the pews, he genuflected and crossed himself. Stepping off the altar, he headed down her aisle. She was baffled when, instead of coming up next to her, he took the pew behind hers.

“Good to see you again, daughter.”

“Good to…” Still kneeling, she glanced over her right shoulder. With the rosary wrapped around his left fingers, he had folded his hands together and was resting them on the back of her pew. “Why are you sitting there, Father?”

“Thought you’d be more comfortable this way, should there be anything…sensitive you wish to confide. Confess.”

She faced the front again. “Why the shortage of lights? Trying to save on the electricity bill?”