Blind Spot Page 12

  “Tell me about it.” She filled some glasses with water, set them on the counter, and shut off the tap.

  He zoned in on a flash of chrome and red that was parked in a corner of the condo. Clothes were draped over the seat and handles. He went over to the bike and pulled off a couple of sweatshirts so he could get a better look. “Honda. Motocross?”

  “I use it as more of a trail bike.”

  “Nice.” He tossed the shirts back on the bike. “Looks big for you, though.”

  “I can handle it.” She carried the water glasses over to the table, set them down, and went back to the counter to scoop hot dish onto the plates. She carried the plates and forks over to the table. “This looks great. Was so busy unpacking, I forgot about eating.”

  He turned away from the bike and shoved his hands in his pockets. “I can help you later.”

  “You’ve got better things to do with your Sunday.”

  “Not really. Sad, isn’t it?”

  She laughed. “You said it. I didn’t.”

  Garcia stepped over to the table and pulled out a chair. “I like your kitchen set.”

  She had a round oak table with a fat pedestal base, circled by four ladder-back chairs. “My folks’ furniture from the farm.” She pulled out the chair across from him and sat down. After he took his seat, she started attacking the food. She stabbed a piece of chicken, blew on it, and popped it into her mouth.

  “How is it?” asked Garcia, his fork poised.

  “Excellent,” she said in between chews. “Thank you so much for bringing it.”

  “It’s a treat being able to cook for someone for a change.”

  “Know what you mean. A drag just cooking for one.”

  He eyed her face for a few seconds. “You look tired. Sure this is okay? I can leave the pan here and take off.”

  “Last night wiped me out, but I’ll be okay. Food will help. So will some company.” She took another bite.

  He shoveled a forkful into his mouth. Without looking up from his plate, he asked: “Your husband—how long has he been gone?”

  She picked up her glass and took a sip of water. “Three years this September.” She set down the glass and to her own amazement, told him details she usually avoided discussing. “Suicide. He hanged himself with his own rigging,” she said, running her index finger around the rim of her water glass. “We were anchored in the middle of nowhere. I had to cut him down. Get us home. I’ll never set foot on another sailboat.”

  “You sold it?”

  “Sunk it,” she said, satisfaction salting her voice.

  He didn’t say anything for several seconds. The only sound in the apartment came from a Sinatra CD, the volume turned just high enough to be audible. “Come Fly with Me.” Poking his food with his fork, Garcia asked: “How long were you married?”

  “Thirteen years.” She picked up her fork and did her own poking. “We met at college. Got married right after we graduated.”

  “Same with me and my wife,” he said. “Right out of school.”

  Bernadette speared a piece of chicken and put it in her mouth. While she chewed, she thought about how to ask her question. Instead of making a query, she decided to put it as a statement. “I figured you were a bachelor.”

  “A widower. For five years, ten months, and…” He looked at his watch. “…six days.”

  “I’m sorry,” Bernadette said in a low voice.

  For the first time since he’d opened the personal conversation, he looked her in the eyes. “She’d just gotten off work—she was a nurse at an old folks’ home—and was driving back to our place. Another car sideswiped her. Ran her off the road and into a ditch and kept going.”

  In her search for sympathetic words, she offered: “My sister was killed in a car accident.”

  “But, unlike Maddy’s case, they never caught the son-of-a-bitch who killed my wife.”

  Garcia had not only gone back far enough into her past to find out about her sister and how she’d died, he’d even picked up on her twin’s nickname. “You know about Maddy. You’ve done some digging.”

  He took a bite of food and washed it down before he answered. “I like to know my people.” He set the glass down. “To that end, why did your husband do it?”

  “He didn’t leave a note, but it was depression.” Even as she answered, she wondered why he’d asked such an intensely personal question so early in their working relationship; most people on the job saved the “why” question until they got to know her. The reason for his probing suddenly dropped into her head, and she looked up from her plate with narrowed eyes. “You don’t have to worry about me, if that’s what you’re thinking. It’s not like it’s contagious.”

  “If you ever need to talk,” he said evenly. “That’s all.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Good,” he said, returning his attention to his hot dish.

  He seemed relieved to have gotten past some personal talk he apparently thought he had to have with her. She wondered if it was some new touchy-feely garbage the bureau was requiring of its bosses. Perhaps Garcia simply required it of himself. She switched to work talk. “Tell me more about my officemate.”

  “Creed. Good guy. Good agent. Like I said before, a little odd.” As if cuing in on the word “odd,” Garcia looked up from his plate and stared at the paper-covered wall across the room. Pointing at the notes with his fork, he asked: “What the hell is that all about?”

  She cut a tortilla with the side of her fork. “Working the case.”

  “What about…”

  His voice trailed off. She knew what was on his mind. What about that weird-ass sight of yours? Before he regrouped to ask, she answered: “I use traditional and nontraditional methods.”

  Garcia dumped a gob of casserole into his mouth and chewed while staring at her notes. He put down his fork, picked up his napkin, dragged it across his mouth, and dropped the wad on the table. He pushed his chair back and stood up. Nodding toward the wall, he asked: “May I?”

  “Go for it.” As she watched him go over to the notes, she wondered what his reaction would be. Her Post-it charts weren’t exactly FBI protocol. Then again, the big shots in D.C. wouldn’t know what to make of an ASAC who took Sunday-night hot dish to the home of an underling; it probably violated some federal rule or policy. In his quirky way, Garcia was himself a renegade.

  He stopped two yards from the wall and took in the overall design. An art critic studying the lines of a sculpture. He took two steps closer, and two more. He clasped his hands behind his back, bent forward, and started reading the scribbles on individual squares. An appraiser looking for a signature of authenticity. “Fascinating,” he said without turning around. “So some of these notes deal with your regular footwork, and some deal with your other method.”

  Other method. She smiled to herself and said to his back: “Right.”

  His eyes locked on one square in particular. “Says here, ‘Get hospital personnel files.’ What’s that about?”

  “We’ll get into that later.”

  “I see we have something of a physical description,” he said, pointing to another block of boxes. “Too bad we can’t get more detailed.”

  “I figure he’s a doctor or a nurse or maybe a lab tech,” she said. “How about that for more detail?” She stabbed a hunk of chicken and popped it into her mouth.

  “What?” Garcia stood straight and spun around to face her.

  She chewed and swallowed, set down her fork, and picked up her napkin. Dabbing at the corners of her mouth, she said: “You heard me.”

  He pivoted back around and ran his eyes over the notes for a couple of minutes. “Help me out here.” His voice carried an edge. “I’m not seeing it.”

  He’s defensive because his wife was a nurse, Bernadette thought. She went over to her boss and stood on his right. Extending her arm, she pointed. “There. I grouped them together.”

  Garcia read the collection of notes. Reached out for sick
woman? Woman’s lover? Read Numbers. Read another book. “I’m confused.”

  “I saw him,” she said, emphasizing saw so Garcia would understand her meaning. “I saw the killer—last night, at a hospital downtown. He was with a patient. She was in bed. I recorded his movements. His behavior. That little bit of a physical description.”

  “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.