She came up behind him. “You okay?”
He nodded, fired the bike up again, and kept going.
She was nervous when they faced climbing the steepest hill in the park. If Garcia didn’t do it just right, the front wheel could lift on him again. “I don’t think you’re ready for this!” she hollered over the engines.
“I can handle it!” he yelled back.
“Don’t forget,” she said. “Ease up on the throttle while shifting, or you’ll end up on your back—maybe with the bike on top of you!”
Garcia started up. He stood on the pegs and leaned forward over the front wheel. He got to the top, waved at her, and kept going. She went up after him.
When they got to an area with a lot of closely spaced humps—moguls—she knew he’d need help. They stopped their bikes next to each other. “Stand on the pegs when you take these, or you’ll never father children!” she yelled.
He laughed. “I want to have children.”
He bumped and bounced over the mounds, and she followed, going slow in case he took a spill. He didn’t.
HE RETURNED the rental bike while she rolled her Honda up the ramp and onto the bed of the pickup. Garcia was so caked with mud, she wouldn’t let him sit down until she’d spread an old blanket over the Ranger’s seat.
Before they got back on the highway, she drove into town to use the self-service car wash. She pulled into the bay, plugged a fistful of quarters into the power spray, and used the hose to clean her machine while it was tied down on the bed of the truck. She climbed back into the truck and looked at her dripping Honda through the rearview mirror. “It’ll be dry by the time I get home.”
“Maybe you should’ve hosed me down,” said Garcia, slapping his caked thighs.
AS SHE TURNED onto the freeway for the drive back to the Twin Cities, the subject of the tower mess finally came up.
“It’s an FBI case, so we can color it any which way we want,” said Garcia. “Araignee carved up a woman in his bathtub and fired at a federal agent, so it was a justifiable shooting. The part about him doing the high dive, we’ll work that into something believable. It was a suicide.”
“It was,” she said.
“When it comes to that fire, if there’re any follow-up questions from the cops or the fire department or the ME’s office, I’ll handle them.”
“Do you really think it was just the publicity that pushed the doc’s self-destruct button?”
Garcia threw an arm up over the top of the bench. “What do you think set him off?”
“All of it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Think about it. If a guy had strolled into Luke’s office carrying the baggage the VonHader boys were dragging around with them, the doc would have put the guy on meds and booked him for a lifetime of counseling. Remember his letter to his wife? That stuff about his demons?”
Garcia nodded. “But instead of seeing a shrink, Matt deals by becoming a party boy and Luke doesn’t deal at all. He pretends his parents’ bullshit was minor. Then one of them ends up pushing their bastard old man down the stairs, and the other covers for him. More ugly luggage.”
“I’m done with this,” she said. “Let’s talk about something else.”
Garcia pointed ahead. “There’s a great greasy spoon right off the next exit.”
She thought about the last time the two of them tried to enjoy a restaurant meal. The prospect of Creed sliding into a truck-stop booth wasn’t boosting her appetite. “I can fix us something at my place.”
THEY PULLED UP next to his car, parked on the street in front of her loft. He looked down at his muddy jeans. He’d kicked off his boots and was in his stocking feet; even his socks had managed to get muddy. “I’ve got a change of clothes in my car, but I’m filthy all the way through.”
“Shower at my place.”
“You sure?”
“Quickly grab your stuff out of your car and hop back in. I’ve gotta pull around and park the truck in the ramp for the night. You can help me roll out the bike and take it back upstairs.”
He popped open the passenger door. “You really haul that machine inside with you every time?”
“Absolutely—it’s my baby. Now get going. Take your gear with you. You can keep my gloves.”
He jumped out, grabbed his helmet and gloves and muddy boots from the floor of the passenger’s side, and went to his car. Bernadette watched him while he bent over and dumped his riding gear into the trunk and dug around for his clean clothes. Garcia, dirty and sweaty, was all smiles after an afternoon of playing in the mud. He looked like a little boy.
She carried his clean clothes and her riding gear while he walked the Honda from the ramp onto the elevator. They reached her floor, and the doors opened.
“The neighbors ever catch you doing this?” he asked, as he rolled the Honda down the corridor.
Bernadette stepped ahead of him, juggled the gear in her arms, and unlocked the door. She propped it open for him with her foot. “People bring their bicycles inside all the time. What’s the difference? Wheels are wheels.”
As he went through the door and steered the bike into its usual corner, he shot a look at her microwave clock. “No wonder I’m hungry. It’s getting near dinnertime. Hope you have enough food.”
Bernadette draped his clean clothes over a kitchen chair and dropped her helmet and gloves and goggles onto the floor. She sat down and pulled off her boots. “I have enough.”
“Can I shower first?”
She scrutinized his jeans. The mud had turned to gray plaster. “Please!”
He started for the bathroom, crunching with every step he took. “Hot shower will be good.”
She dug out a garbage bag from under the sink and tossed it to him before he closed the bathroom door. “For your jeans. Wash them or toss them when you get home. Just don’t let them mess up my bathroom floor.”
“Gotcha,” he said, shutting the door.
She realized he’d forgotten to take his clean duds into the bathroom with him and reached to grab them off the kitchen chair. Too late. She heard the shower running.
WHILE GARCIA cleaned up, she pulled off her sweatshirt and smoothed the T-shirt she had on underneath. It was good enough attire for this casual evening. She opened up a bottle of wine and poured herself a glass. Sipping, she inventoried the refrigerator’s contents. The chicken breasts could be broiled. Baked potatoes would take a while, but that might not be a bad thing. They could pop in a movie.
“Don’t do it—you’ll be sorry.”
Startled, she put her hand over her heart and slammed the fridge shut. She pivoted around and saw him standing in her kitchen. “Ruben,” she whispered. “Get out of my house.”
“You’re half-hoping he hits on you.” The shower stopped, and Creed looked toward the bathroom door. “I’ve got a news flash. He’s planning on it.”
She set her wineglass down on the counter. “Baloney.”
“Why do you think he forgot his clothes out here?”
Garcia wouldn’t be that manipulative. Creed was trying to make trouble. “I invited him to dinner, and that’s all.”
“You should make me dinner for taking care of your two assailants.”
Her eyes narrowed while she processed what he was saying. “The bums in the basement?”
“Do you think you fought them off by yourself? Why do you think they stayed in the basement?”
“How did you keep them down there?”
He raised his hands over his head. “Boo.”
She stifled a laugh. “My hero. Thank you. Thanks for the tip on the Araignee twin, too.”
He took a deep bow. Then he stepped up to her and put his bony finger in her face. “But if you continue this after-hours socialization with our superior—”
The bathroom door popped open, and Creed looked toward it. Vanished.