Blind Spot Read online

  Contents

  Cover Page

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Transferred Again

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-one

  Chapter Fifty-two

  Copyright

  This book is dedicated to my wonderful, supportive sister, Bernadette, who said I could use her name as long as her character wasn’t a whore or an ax murderer.

  Love you, Bern.

  Acknowledgments

  I owe everything to my husband, David, and our sons, Patrick and Ryan, who keep me energized with their unwavering love and loyalty.

  My brother, Joseph, and his wife, Rita, continue to bolster my efforts with their encouragement and faith.

  I am immensely grateful to my agent, Esther Newberg, and to my editor, Phyllis Grann, for their hard work and their belief in my writing.

  Finally, eternal thanks go to my longtime friend and champion, John Camp, who is always there when I need him.

  Transferred Again

  Humidity rolling off of the Mississippi River simmered with the smell of fried garlic and onions and shrimp and sausage, the air thick enough to stab with a knife. A man and a woman walked out of the Eighth District Police Station, slipped on their sunglasses, and shuffled into the gumbo. They were dressed in gray slacks and gray blazers with white shirts. He wore a red tie, and she had a maroon scarf draped around her neck. He was dark-haired, heavy, tall, suntanned. She was pretty, pale, and thin. She stood a foot shorter than he, and her blond hair was cropped close enough to have been done by a barber. Behind the shades, they were sober-faced, bordering on somber.

  “That could’ve gone a helluva lot better,” said the woman, unbuttoning her blazer as she walked. “So much for Southern hospitality.”

  The man loosened his tie and then gave up on it, yanking it off and stuffing it in his pants pocket. “They had their chance. Now it’s our case.”

  “Your case. I’m outta here next week. Remember?”

  He laughed. “Where’re they shipping you off to? Shreveport? That’s a promotion, right?”

  “Funny,” she said dryly. From across the road, she eyed a pastel building with black iron balcony railing. It looked like every structure on Royal Street, every structure in the French Quarter. “That a bank or a bar or a boutique?”

  “Bank.”

  “Gotta cash a check.”

  “I want to get back to the office so I can go home,” he said.

  “Just take a minute.”

  “They won’t cash dick unless you’ve got an account. I could use some money for the weekend. Let’s stop at a station and use the ATM. Need to gas up anyways.”

  Her eyes narrowed as she stared at the bank, a low building. The closed window shutters dotting the second story resembled dead eyes. Something was bothering her. She tried to push the familiar feeling away and failed. “They’ll take my check,” she said. “If they don’t, we can use their cash machine. They have to have a machine.”

  “Fine,” he grumbled, swiping the sweat off his brow with the palm of his hand. “Let’s do it and get out of this sauna.”

  They crossed the street, weaving around a knot of people standing in the middle of the road. “Good to see all the tourists,” said the woman. “The town sure is coming back.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” the man mumbled. He held the bank door open while she stepped inside. He pulled off his shades; she kept hers on. The smells of the street followed them into the building and mixed with the scent of money: fried sausage dipped in ink. The woman peeked over her glasses and surveyed the interior of the bank, a shoe box chilled by an oversized window air conditioner. She saw an “Out of Order” note slapped over the cash machine in the foyer and a “Please Step to Another Window” sign propped in the opening of a teller’s window. A girl teller was at the only other window, helping a big guy stuffed into a polo shirt. A big guy stuffed into a tee shirt was waiting his turn. Standing at a counter planted in the middle of the shoe box was a guy in a suit, scribbling with a pen chained to the table. Beyond the tellers’ windows were four glass-walled offices; one cube held a man hunched over a desk.

  The polo shirt stepped away from the teller’s window and left; the tee shirt took his place. The customer at the table dropped the pen, grabbed his slip, and took his spot behind the tee shirt. The woman stepped over to the table and reached into her blazer. While she pulled out her checkbook, she eyed the waiting man. Young. Red hair cut short. Clean-shaven. Well dressed in pinstripes. A nicer suit than her partner’s. He turned his head, glanced at her and her companion, and looked away.

  Her partner shoved his hands in his pants pockets and stared out one of the windows facing Royal. The sound of a sax penetrated the building. Bourbon Street, running parallel to Royal, was one block over. The clubs were starting to hop as the late afternoon melted into early evening. “Want to grab a beer later tonight? Catch a band?” he asked without turning to face her. “My treat. A goodbye beer.”

  The woman didn’t answer. She dropped her checkbook on the counter and opened it. She reached over, grabbed the bank pen, and pulled it toward her. She started, as if the pen had given her a shock. She stood frozen, head bent down, pen poised over paper but not touching it. A shudder shook her frame, and behind her sunglasses, her closed lids vibrated from rapid eye movement.

  Her companion pulled his hands out of his pockets, turned around, and glared at her with impatience. “We should’ve stopped at a gas station.” He turned back to the windows.

  She opened her eyes and, with her trembling left hand, slipped off her sunglasses and dropped them on the counter. Her grip on the pen tightened. She pulled it closer—until the chain snapped. She had to let go. She unclenched her right fist and let the pen fall to the floor. She blinked and took a deep breath. Had she really read what she thought she’d read? She had, she told herself. This time she was dead-on. She reached inside her blazer.

  The tee shirt finished his business and left. The redhead stepped up to the window.

  “Hands up!” the woman hollered. “FBI.”

  The redhead swung around. His eyes locked on the Glock she had
pointed at his chest. He raised his hands in the air. “Ma’am?” The teller saw the gun, gasped, and took a step back from the window. Behind the teller, the man in the glass office looked up from his paperwork. His hand went to the phone on his desk.

  The woman’s partner swung around. “What the hell?” He pulled out his own pistol and aimed it at the pinstripes while talking to the woman. “What is it?”

  Her eyes and gun didn’t leave her target. “He’s looking to rob the place. His pockets. Be careful. He’s armed.”

  “Don’t move!” Keeping his gun on the guy, her partner stepped over to the redhead. With his free hand, he reached into the pin-striped jacket and pulled out a handgun. “Beretta. Nice. Got papers for it?” The redhead didn’t respond. “That’s not the right answer, my friend.” He slipped it into his own pants pocket. He patted the redhead’s other pockets. Nothing. He noticed something in the guy’s left hand. He reached up and snatched a rectangle of paper. He ran his eyes over the writing. “Amazing. A police station right across the street. It’s a…”

  “I know what it is,” said his partner. “I already read it.”

  The two agents stood on the sidewalk, watching and talking as the redhead was being shoved into a squad car. “What do we tell them back at the office this time?” the man asked his partner.

  “That it was your arrest,” she said. “That you recognized him from tapes of the other robberies.”

  “He wore a ski mask before this.”

  She sighed. “Make up whatever shit you want, then.”

  “How’d you figure it out?”

  “You know better than to ask.”

  “I just thought…”

  “You thought you’d like to join me in Shreveport.”

  “Hell, no.”

  “Then don’t ask,” she said. “Don’t ever fucking ask.”

  One

  Spring in Minnesota is a bad blind date: Late in arriving. Disappointingly cold. Sloppy and frenetic and loud and foul-smelling. Beneath all of that, glimmers of something dangerous yet desirable.

  In the skies above the Mississippi River, bald eagles glide and dip as they search for dead fish and the animal carcasses that become visible each spring, when the white cover is pulled back. Dogs bolt from their yards and head for the woods or the road, lured by the scents released by the receding snow. Before it finally surrenders, the ice on the lakes groans and cracks and moves. The winds blow hard and long, rattling the trees and drying up the puddles. The skunk cabbage pokes through the mud, emitting an odor that’s a cross between garlic and a skunk’s stink. Turkeys rev up their gobbling and put on a show to get the attention of the other birds. The sun rises earlier and loiters like it might stay all the way through dinner.

  The teenager stood at his back stoop. He could smell dinner—pot roast and new potatoes—but he couldn’t eat until the dog was kenneled. “Gunner! Here, boy! Gunner!” He clapped his hands together twice. “Come on, boy!”

  His father walked out the back door and stood behind him. “You should’ve put the collar on him.”

  The boy frowned and shoved his hands in his jacket pockets. “Don’t like shocking him.”

  “Better than watching him run across the highway and get flattened.”

  “He’ll come.” The boy went down the steps, put the middle and index fingers of both hands in his mouth, and blew. The whistle did the trick. A German wire-haired pointer came loping out of the pines behind the house. “Good boy, Gunner.”

  The father squinted into the low sun as the dog galloped toward them. “What’s he got in his mouth?”

  The boy shrugged. “Something dead. Another squirrel.”

  The dog stopped at the bottom of the steps, wagged his stubby tail, and dropped his prize at the feet of the younger master. The boy jumped back and almost fell backward on the steps behind him. “Dad!”

  His father thumped down and stood next to him. Crouching over, he touched the bloody thing with the tips of his fingers. Without looking up, he said to his son: “Go in the house. Call the sheriff. Call 911.”

  The boy didn’t move. “Dad!”

  “Do what I say! Now!” The boy turned and ran up the steps, yanked open the screen door, and went inside. The door slammed behind him. “Sweet Jesus,” the father muttered as he stared at the object on the ground.

  The mother came out, stood on the stoop, and wiped her hands on her apron. “Food’s getting cold.” She looked down at her husband’s bent back. “What is it?” She took a step down and then another. She saw what he was hunkered over and gasped. Her eyes went past the yard and into the woods, where the sun was starting to slip behind the tallest trees. “Who? What do you think happened? How?”

  “God knows.”

  “Should we take the truck? Go look?”

  The man stood up but kept his eyes locked on the object at his feet. The dog darted forward and bent his head down, making a move to retrieve his find. “No!” yelled the man. “Sit!” The dog backed away, sat down, and panted. A spot of blood dotted the wiry hairs of the animal’s muzzle.

  His wife repeated: “Should we take the truck and go look?” She paused. “What if whoever lost it…” Her voice trailed off.

  The man shook his head. “Poor bastard who lost this has gotta be dead.” He looked up and into the woods. “Sun will be down by the time the sheriff gets here.”

  The woman turned her head to the side. Her next question was a woman’s question: “Is there a wedding ring?”

  He looked back down. “It’s the right hand.”

  He regained consciousness before dark. Every inch of him ached, waves of agony washing over him and burning him like scalding bathwater. His lips were split and swollen. The taste of his own blood salted the inside of his mouth. He swallowed once. Something small and hard went down his throat, and he almost gagged on his own front tooth. In the midst of the pain and nausea, another sensation pushed to the surface. Confusion. Where was he? The woods. He sat on the ground with his back against a tree, an evergreen. He could smell the pine and feel the needles under him. He shivered. He was cold, and his pants were wet. He’d urinated on himself; he didn’t know when. He tried to move and realized he was tied to the tree. Rope coiled around him from his shoulders down to his waist. He looked at his legs in front of him. Rope bound them from his knees down to his ankles. A realization. His vision. One eye was swollen shut, but out of the other he could see. Hardwoods and evergreens were turning into shadows. Lacy patches of twilight spotted the ground. Why could he see? During the beating, his glasses had been knocked off, and he was blind without them. Who’d put them back on his face? He struggled against the ropes, and the intensity of the pain increased. Boiled over. “Oh God!” he moaned to the darkening sky.

  The pain was worse one place in particular. He turned his head to the right and looked at his arm, bound to his side. A shaft of fading sun poked through the canopy of pine boughs above him and illuminated the horror perfectly, as if someone held a flashlight there for him. See that? His moans contorted into a sob. His right hand was gone. His assailant had taken it off. The fiend had made sure he’d be able to see the stump—by placing his glasses back on his face.

  He wanted to scream but didn’t have the strength. All he managed was a noise. A hoarse, guttural growl. Dying-animal sound. He shut his mouth and his eyes and took a breath. He worked up some saliva inside his mouth and swallowed, tasting more blood than spit. “God help me,” he whispered. His shoulders shook with sobs. “I’m sorry. Help me.” As he wept, he remembered his assailant’s tears; the bastard had cried even as he beat him. Why? The monster’s words throbbed inside his head like a heartbeat. Life for life. Life for life. Life for life.

  He passed out again, this time for good. His head fell forward, but the glasses stayed on his face. His killer had tied them to his head.

  A month later and a hundred miles south, two brothers stood on the sandy banks of the Mississippi as they fished at Hidden Falls in St. Paul. Th
e park winds along the shoreline at the bend in the Mississippi, near its confluence with the Minnesota River. Though in the middle of an urban area, the boys were surrounded by limestone rock outcroppings and forest land. Across the river from the pair, atop the bluffs, were perched the stone buildings of Fort Snelling, an 1820s military outpost restored as a tourist site.

  The pair repeatedly cast their lines out into the middle of the band of water and reeled them back in with disgust. “Anything?” one would yell. “Nothin’,” the other would respond. On their hooks was the bait most preferred by Minnesota kids: night crawlers coaxed from the soil with the help of a running hose. Though they talked big talk about catching record sunnies and crappies, they’d take anything that fit in a frying pan—or almost anything.

  The ten-year-old started reeling in his line again. There was something on it, but it wasn’t fighting like a fish. What was it? The line stopped coming in, jerking to a halt. He cranked the reel hard and it whined. Must have snagged another stick, he figured. The river was high, and there was a lot of junk floating in it. The boy wiggled the tip of the rod up and down a few times, then pulled hard toward his right shoulder. He felt the line loosen, and he resumed his reeling. He stepped closer to the water’s edge and stopped cranking. He lifted the tip of his pole into the air. A tangled bundle emerged from the water and swung toward him. His line was wrapped around a branch—and something else. He looked at it and blinked twice. “Lee!” he yelled to his older brother. He dropped the rod on the ground and took a step backward. He tripped over a rock and fell on his butt. “Lee!”

  The older boy held on to his own pole and stared out at the river. “I’m not untangling your line again. You’ve got to learn sometime, you lazy shit.”

  “Lee!”

  The teenager sighed, reeled in his line, and set his rod on the ground. He looked at his younger brother with disgust. “Stupid stick ain’t gonna bite you.”