“What else? If you saw him fondling her, you must have gotten a look at his hands or arms. Tattoos? Scars?”
“Neither. He’s white. I’m pretty sure there were blond hairs on his arms, but I can’t be a hundred percent certain. They didn’t have any lamps on, and the room was dark because it was nighttime. The sheers were allowing a little light inside from, I don’t know, the moon or streetlights or something.”
“Do you think it was nighttime here, in the Twin Cities?”
“I got a look at a bedside clock, and it was the same time as it was here. If they’re not in town, they’re at least in the same time zone.”
“Wow. That nails it. A white male, maybe blond, in a bedroom or a motel room located somewhere in our time zone.”
Ignoring his crack, she snatched her wineglass and his bottle off the table and took them into the kitchen. She opened the fridge. “You want another beer?”
“I don’t know,” he said, checking his watch. “Do you want to kick me out?”
She did, but not because she was tired. Telling herself she had enough self-control to keep her hands off him, she pulled out a St. Pauli and went over to hand it to him. “No. Stay. Stay.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure,” she said, and returned to the kitchen to pour another glass of wine for herself. “Hey. Did you get that doctor’s name? The one who prescribed lithium to Klein?”
“Almost forgot.” He reached into his pants pocket and dropped a folded square of paper on her coffee table.
“Good,” she said.
“Cops have already interviewed him, by the way.”
“I’ve got my own set of questions.”
“Gonna start with him in the morning?”
“The professor.”
“Let’s plug in a movie and forget about work for a couple of hours.” He went over to her DVD rack.
They watched two movies, a Johnny Depp film about a writer wigging out and turning homicidal, followed by a Robert De Niro flick about a widower wigging out and turning homicidal. Garcia had made both picks. They sat together on the couch but remained firmly planted on opposite ends. She was going to suggest the Glenn Close–Michael Douglas classic about the jealous mistress wigging out and turning homicidal but decided there was too much rough sex in it and it might set her off again.
It was close to midnight by the time Garcia went home, but she was still too wound up to go to sleep. He’d left the bagged scarf on the coffee table next to the paper containing the doctor’s name. Both objects seemed to be calling to her, but one more than the other, and she couldn’t resist.
She ran upstairs to change into her rattiest jeans and a sweatshirt. She’d take the scarf for another round in the basement. While Garcia had disliked the hole, she’d been pleased with how quickly it had allowed her to connect with the killer.
Chapter 14
RETURNING TO THE same Urine-Scented corner of the basement, she lowered herself to the floor and leaned her back against the wall. The kitty had gone into hiding. Bernadette heard a scuffing noise, however. It was cleaning up after a visit to the makeshift litter box. She shifted uneasily, wondering if it had been a mistake to come without some sort of barrier between her jeans and the disgusting floor. Something else made her uneasy as well, but she tried to dismiss it as her earlier nerves acting up.
She set the bag on her lap and stared at the scarf inside it, wondering what it would bring to her at that late hour. Would he be sleeping next to his lover or fleeing her home with her body left behind in the tub? Would he linger, admiring her corpse in the water?
The scraping grew louder, and she knew it wasn’t an animal. She shoved the bag into her pocket and jumped to her feet.
A gravelly voice: “Hey, Blondie. What’s the rush?”
Two long-haired men in jeans and tattered camo hunting jackets were walking toward her. Had they been there all along, or had they just come in off the street? Had they been there when she and Garcia were down earlier? Didn’t matter; the building’s defective doors were to blame. “Stop right there,” she said.
The shortest of the scruffy pair froze, but his taller buddy—the one who’d addressed her—kept coming. He had an empty whiskey bottle in his right hand. He grinned, exposing a black gap where a row of front teeth had rotted away. “You got a tight little ass on you, Blondie.”
She took a couple steps backward but kept her attention on the tall one. His eyes were buggy, and he reeked of liquor. She instinctively reached under her sweatshirt to the waist of her jeans and felt her heart sink. Her gun wasn’t there; she’d left it upstairs after changing. Her eyes traveled beyond the men to the stairs behind them.
The tall one stopped a few yards away from her, threw his head back, and laughed, revealing a mouth filled with more rotting teeth. “You’ll never make it, Blondie.” He grabbed at his crotch with his grimy hand. “You’re gonna have to do the both of us, and then maybe we’ll let you out of here. Maybe.”
Shorty found his courage and his tongue and came up next to his partner. He swayed and slurred and pointed a filthy finger at her. “Fuckin’ right about that.”
“Fellas,” she said calmly, “you don’t want to do this. I’m an FBI agent.”
They were unimpressed. With a grunt, the taller man swung the whiskey bottle against the side of a pillar, knocking off the bottom. Brandishing the jagged half, he resumed his march toward her. “Gonna fuck you and cut you up good.”
The short guy was hanging back again. Bernadette figured she could weave through them and reach the stairs. She made a dash for the hole between the two. Shorty stayed where he was, but his pal spun around and went after her.
She was halfway up the stairs when she felt a hand around her ankle. He pulled her down, and they both slipped and fell on their faces on the steps. Miraculously, he lost his grip on the bottle. She heard it clatter and land on the concrete below them. The guy let go of her for an instant but then snagged her ankle again—this time with both hands. She yanked her leg away and turned. From a sitting position on the steps, she raised her foot and smashed his face with the bottom of her sneaker.
He stayed on his knees on the stairs. “Bitch! I’m gonna kill you!” He crawled up a step and lunged for her. Fell on top of her.
“Get the fuck off!” Pushing against his chest with both hands, Bernadette struggled to raise his body off hers. He smelled of sweat and booze and mildew and urine. The stairwell of a dirty parking ramp. He felt like a bag of wet sand, damp and heavy and immobile. She slid out from under him and, still on her back, pushed herself up two steps.
He crawled after her. “I’m not done with you, cunt!”
She cranked her foot back and landed another blow to his face, hitting him square on the nose.
He tumbled down the stairs and landed at the bottom, flat on his back. “Bitch,” he gurgled, holding his face with both hands. “You broke my nose!” He tried to get up and fell back with a confused look on his face.
She sat where she was for a moment, enjoying his pain. They were lucky she didn’t have her gun.
She jumped up and darted up the steps, ran all the way back to her place, and called the police.
AMAZINGLY, THE two drunks were still in the basement when the police arrived.
A young female uniform met Bernadette at her loft and took a statement. Bernadette followed her downstairs and stood in the hallway watching through the front glass doors as the two interlopers were loaded into the squad car by a team of policemen.
The female officer, a slender African American woman, put her hand on Bernadette’s shoulder. “You need me to call someone to stay with you tonight?”
Bernadette said, “I’m good. The bastards will be locked up. Was nice of them to stay put for you.”
“We’re not dealing with geniuses here. Plus they were both drunker than skunks. Maybe high, too. Talking crazy talk.”