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  “Not much. Woman found dead in her home. Possible OD. That’s it. They aren’t even mentioning the tub. They know we need to keep a lid on these deaths until we know what’s going on.”

  “Sounds like everything is under control,” she said evenly. “What’s left for me to do?”

  “I’d like you to spend your time working this case in a way that the police and our agents can’t.”

  Her eyes drifted over to her wall of yellow Post-its, but she knew that that wasn’t what Garcia was talking about. Unlike her previous bosses, Garcia was blunt about asking for her sight, and she found that validating. Creed didn’t approve of her ability, however, and she didn’t want him to overhear. She swiveled her chair around so her back was to her office mate. “I need the scarf, unless there’s something else we think the killer touched. Did he leave anything behind with this victim? Was there anything he obviously touched, something portable you can grab?”

  “I don’t know. Crime scene is still inside. I’m calling from my car.”

  She wondered if Garcia was embarrassed to have someone overhear his end of the conversation with her, and then told herself to stop being paranoid. “I’d like to join the mob. While I’m there, maybe I’ll see something I can use.”

  He gave her the address. The apartment was on the west bank of the campus, while the previous victim’s home had been on the east. “Make it quick,” he said. “There’s a lot of stuff here, and they’re going to town with the bagging.”

  “What do you mean, a lot of stuff?”

  “You’ll see.”

  OPENED CAT FOOD cans and pop cans. Empty Kleenex boxes surrounded by wads of tissue. Half-spent rolls of toilet paper and paper towels. Empty cigarette packs. A coffee mug filled to overflowing with cigarette butts. Spilled bags of potato chips. Banana peels and orange peels. A bowl of shriveled grapes. Cans of whipped cream. A massive collection of Chinese takeout cartons. Unopened mail and rolled-up newspapers with the rubber bands still wrapped around them.

  The odors—the strongest came from the cat waste and the rotten fruit—made Bernadette nauseous. Keeping her hand over her nose and mouth, she walked deeper inside. Even in the middle of the day, the drapes were drawn. With the lights out, it would have been as dark as a cave. As dark as Klein’s mood, she imagined.

  “Hi,” she said to one of the crime scene crew.

  “Want a mask?” one of them asked through his mask.

  She shook her head and continued gawking at the mess. She was well aware that people with emotional and mental problems let their housekeeping go to hell, but this was stunning.

  Weaving around the men and the garbage they were picking through, she went into the kitchen. Dirty dishes were mounded in both sinks and it stank like sour milk. Each of the stove’s four burners was topped with a saucepan; she didn’t have the intestinal fortitude to check what was inside them. The dishwasher was open and the bottom rack was pulled out. A lone plate covered in tomato sauce sat in wait. Was it a feeble attempt at starting the cleanup, or was it the last housekeeping chore the young woman managed before falling into some sort of emotional abyss?

  When she went back into the living room, something brushed up against her shin. Looking down, she saw the furry source of the feline odors. “Cats,” she grumbled, and pushed the animal away with the side of her shoe. It detoured over to the Chinese takeout cartons sitting under the coffee table and stuck its head inside one of the boxes.

  “Want to take him home with you?” one of the crime scene guys asked.

  “No, thanks,” she said, snapping on her gloves. “Where’s the body?”

  He pointed across the room to a closed hallway door. “Help yourself. We got what we needed out of there. Bedroom is all clear, too.”

  “Anybody come up with any DNA goodies?” she asked through her hand.

  “Nothing under her nails or anything easy like that.” He sat back on his heels and sighed. “Maybe we can come up with some people hair buried in all this stinking cat hair.”

  She nodded and walked into the hallway. The instant she pushed the bathroom door open, a kitten scurried out. She was surprised to find the bathroom uncluttered and relatively clean, save for the smelly litter box tucked into a corner. Klein had allowed herself one tidy space. A refuge of sorts.

  While pulling the gloves tight over her fingers, Bernadette ran her eyes around the compact bathroom. No signs of a struggle, but the floor was a lake. The guy in the apartment below must have gotten quite a shower. She went over to the side of the tub, a white rectangle that was built into the wall. It was short but deep. Deep enough to drown someone.

  Klein wasn’t quite as emaciated as the first girl, but she was close. Instead of long red hair, she had a cap of short black hair. Bruises on her body. Feces in the water. No rose petals this time, but something floral scented the water. Again, her evening had started out as something pleasant and morphed into murder.

  Down the short hall to the bedroom. The twelve-by-twelve space smelled like the inside of a wet tennis shoe. Clothes littered the floor and the mattress. The dresser and nightstands were covered with more dirty laundry, as well as tampon boxes, tampon wrappers, cans of body spray, cotton balls smeared with makeup, and a pizza carton containing crusts. Every drawer was pulled open and had bras or panties or nylons hanging out, as if underwear thieves had rifled through the place.

  “God Almighty,” she said to the squalor. It was hard to believe someone actually slept in the room. Did homework there, too, apparently. A tower of texts and a shorter stack of notebooks sat on the nightstand next to the bed.

  Bernadette went over to the books and examined the titles on the bindings. A volume on Dorothy Parker. An astronomy text. European history. Economics. Her eyes traveled to the notebook pile. Was there a personal journal buried in there? Carefully, she lifted one after the other. The notebook at the very bottom set off an alarm. On the cover, in black marker, a handwritten title: SUICIDE.

  Garcia came up behind her, pulling on gloves. “Find something?”

  “Maybe.” Holding it by the edges, she lifted it so that Garcia could see it.

  “Shit. What was that about?”

  “It can’t be a class.” She opened it and a set of stapled papers fell out.

  Garcia bent over and picked up the packet by the edges. “Syllabus.”

  “It is a class.” Reading over Garcia’s shoulder, she saw the full name of the course at the top: The Poetry of Suicide. Below the title was the name of the instructor. Professor Finlay Wakefielder. It was an unusual first name and she remembered seeing it before. “Hmmm.”

  Garcia looked over his shoulder at her. “Yeah?”

  “It was a different class, but he was the instructor. I didn’t think anything of the course title when I first saw it, but now…”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “One of the other victims took a class from this Professor Wakefielder. I think it was the June victim. Alice Bergerman.”

  Garcia lowered his arms, the syllabus still in his hand. “Coincidence? I mean, if you teach two hundred kids at a time in a big lecture hall, chances are…”

  “Biology 101 is held in a big lecture hall, Tony. This sounds like a small lit seminar.”

  He raised the syllabus again and stared at it. “What was the other course called?”

  “Madness in American Literature,” she said.

  “This guy has issues,” Garcia said.

  She turned the notebook over and noticed a sticker with a phone number for a suicide hotline. The girl had definitely been interested in the topic. She set the notebook down the way she’d found it. “I’ll check him out tomorrow,” she said. “Tonight I want to go a round with the scarf.”

  “You’re pretty sure the killer planted it on the bridge?”

  “I’m hoping he did.”

  “And that when he touched it, he did so with his bare hands,” added Garcia.

  “I can’t guarantee anything, thou
gh. Even if he did put his naked mitts on it, I can’t say my sight is going to feel like helping me out today.”

  “Should I bring it over to the St. Paul cathedral? I could meet you there.”

  It was a decent suggestion. Garcia had accompanied her to churches; the quiet and dimness of the cavernous spaces helped her sight. She eyed the clock on the dead woman’s nightstand. “I’m pretty sure the cathedral has services during the week. Really, it’s still early enough that any church might have stuff going on. Choir practice and whatnot.”

  “Meet me in your office, then. You could give it a go right there.”

  “No way is that going to work for my sight.”

  “There’s no one else around, and if we turned off all the lights, it’d be dark enough.”

  Even if the construction racket was gone by the time they got there, Creed could be lurking about. “Cellar won’t work,” she said shortly.

  “Then where?” he asked impatiently. “Someplace close. We need to do this pronto.”

  “Murrick Place has a basement, dark and empty. The walls are so thick, somebody could detonate a bomb outside and you’d never know it.”

  “Do you have a key?”

  “We don’t need one,” she said, praying that was correct.

  “After we’re through here, I’ll meet you at your loft with the scarf, and we’ll go down together,” he said. “Be ready to work.”

  Garcia had an edge to his voice. Bernadette figured he felt guilty he hadn’t produced the scarf earlier in the week. Both of them were wondering the same thing: Could her sight have helped them prevent this?

  Chapter 12

  SPOOKED BY THE TWO VISITORS, THE STRAY CAT FLATTENED itself against the wall as it darted into a dark corner. The stink of degeneracy hung in the air, an acrid combination of booze and urine. In the middle of the large space, a lone bulb dangled from the ceiling on a frayed cord and swayed in a draft that seemed to rise up from the floor. A semi rumbled past on the road outside, the sound muffled by the density of the basement stonework. Anyone passing by wouldn’t have given a glance to the dim light dancing against the basement’s glass block, but something extraordinary was about to take place on the other side of those windows.

  Rubbing her arms over her blazer, Bernadette walked the perimeter while Garcia stood at the bottom of the steps with his arms folded in front of him. They’d had no trouble gaining access to the space. The door to the basement was not only unlocked but also practically falling off its hinges. More maintenance the building’s caretaker had been neglecting.

  “What’re we looking for?” Garcia asked.

  “A place to sit and do this,” she said distractedly. “A ledge or a chair.”

  “You’re going to get dirty in this hole,” he said. “You should have changed into your jeans.”

  “Too late for that now.” Seeing nothing along the walls, she made her way to the middle of the basement and stood under the bulb. The light flickered for a moment, then held steady. She ran her eyes over the ceiling, a maze of joists and pipes laced with cobwebs. “Built like a brick shithouse.”

  Garcia wrinkled his nose. “Smells like one, too. Homeless folks must have used the basement as a toilet for years before the building was rescued.”

  “I think Kitty is still using it as a litter box,” she said, lifting up her shoe and checking the bottom. “I’ve had my fill of cat shit today, I’ll tell you.”

  Garcia checked his own shoe and scraped the bottom on the edge of the last step. “Let’s hope this is from Kitty.”

  Her eyes widened. “Did you hear that?”

  “What?”

  “I heard some…I don’t know—scraping.”

  “Are you trying to spook me?” he asked.

  “No. I’m serious.”

  Slipping his hand past his coat and blazer, he touched his holstered gun. The basement was dotted with massive support pillars, and he peeked around them as he walked toward her. “I don’t hear anything.”

  “Probably a mouse or another cat taking a poop,” she said.

  He stepped next to her. “Should I go upstairs and get you a folding chair? I could grab a blanket out of your condo.”

  “Don’t forget the wine and bread and cheese.”

  He laughed gently. “Right.”

  “Actually, I can sit on the floor against the wall,” she said.

  “I don’t want you to do that; it’s filthy down here.”

  “No biggie,” she said, and headed for a corner of the room.

  “Wait.” Following her, he took off his trench coat and spread it out on the floor.

  She was both touched and amused by his gallant gesture. Looking down at the spot he’d prepared on the floor, she said, “I feel like I’m on a bad date. A really, really bad date that is about to get a lot worse.”

  “It’s not too late for the wine. Bottle of Ripple would be about right.”

  “My daddy warned me about boys like you,” she said, lowering herself onto the makeshift blanket. She stretched her legs out in front of her and leaned back against the wall.

  “I’m really sorry about this,” he said, gazing at her.

  “In case you haven’t noticed, I am not into high-end fashion.” She patted her thighs. “I get all my suits from the junior department. Wash and wear.”

  “That doesn’t make me feel any better.” He reached inside his blazer and produced a plastic bag the size of a sandwich. He squatted down next to her and stretched out his hand. “Here you go.”

  She stared at the bag without making a move to take it. “I’m afraid.”

  “Of what you’ll see?”

  “That I won’t see anything.”

  Fingering the plastic, he said, “We don’t have to do this today. I put pressure on you because I didn’t…”

  She reached out and took it from him. “Give me a minute to get in the mood.”

  “Whatever you want.”

  Bernadette unsealed the bag and tipped it upside down. A scarf the length of her arm spilled out onto her lap. It was olive-colored silk. Monica Taratino had gone missing in May, and Bernadette thought the color was subtle for a spring scarf. What had the young woman been thinking about the moment she put it on? Probably not her own mortality. The fabric smelled vaguely of a woman’s perfume. Had she dabbed it on to impress a particular man or to please herself? It was something spicy and Oriental and indulgent. “Opium,” Bernadette murmured.

  Garcia frowned. “Drugs are involved?”

  “No. She wore Opium perfume.” An elegant scent and a tasteful silk scarf. Despite her emotional problems, Monica Taratino had a touch of class. A sympathetic pang stabbed Bernadette’s gut, and she stared at the puddle of perfumed fabric resting in her lap, at once anxious and afraid to touch it.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” she said, and scooped up the scarf.

  She tightened her right fist around the silk, rested her hand in her lap, and closed her eyes. It was as quiet as an empty church. The only noise she heard was the sound of her own breathing and that of the man hunkered down inches from her. Inhaling deeply, she took in the basement’s stench. Rather than fight the dankness, she embraced it. The pit became her own private dungeon, a hell to which she’d been rightfully banished for her offenses. Practicing or not, she remained a Catholic and had no trouble coming up with a list of sins: Lusting after the man sharing the basement with her, a friend and boss she couldn’t and shouldn’t have. Letting her husband die by failing to spot his depression. Recklessly wielding an unnatural gift that she only vaguely understood.

  She exhaled slowly. Under her breath, she made her usual petition: “Lord, help me see clearly.”

  SHE OPENS HER eyes. The basement stonework melts away and is replaced by a wall of windows. Curtains cover the panes, but the fabric is so sheer she can see through them. It is night out, but a weak, white glow is seeping through the curtains. Is it moonlight? Streetlights? A yard light? Whatever i
t is, Bernadette wishes it was stronger. Between the poor illumination and her blurry sight, the room is a poorly focused black-and-white photo rather than a snapshot offering sharp details. The killer moves closer to the windows, and Bernadette prays he takes a peek outside so that she can get a clue about his location. Instead, he turns around.

  He’s standing by the side of a mattress. He glances across the bed—it’s a big four-poster—and looks at a woman standing along the other side. She is slender and pale and has long brown hair that flows past her shoulders. The most striking thing about her, however, is the fact that she’s nude. It’s too early for bed, so they’re obviously hopping in the sack for another reason. Is she going to be his next victim? Will he bed this one before he drowns her?

  The murderer’s eyes are locked on his partner, and all Bernadette can see of the room is what is beyond the woman’s pale naked body: a single, massive piece of furniture. An armoire. This is either a very simple bedroom or a hotel room. There must be a mirror in the room. If only the murderer would step up to a mirror. Even though the room is dimly lit, a glimpse of his reflection would give her something. A verification of his size. His hair color. Are you a big blond dude?

  He looks back to his side of the bed. There’s a nightstand with a lamp on it. Turn on the lamp! He doesn’t, of course, but he glances at a digital clock with large glowing numbers. This is real time. This is happening right now.

  Reaching down, he tears back the bedspread. As he does so, Bernadette catches a glimpse of his right hand. It’s white. He glances across the mattress, and the woman pulls down the covers on her side of the bed. She hops onto the mattress and pulls the covers over her body. She’s wearing rings on the fingers of both hands, but Bernadette can’t tell if there’s a wedding band in the collection.

  He climbs in next to her and reaches across her. Are those blond hairs on his arm? Too difficult to see for certain. He yanks the covers out of her hands; he wants to see her naked body. His right hand goes to her breasts. This isn’t gentle fondling; he’s kneading and squeezing. Her legs move restlessly as he touches her, but she makes no move to push him away. He crawls on top of the woman, and Bernadette wonders if he’s already wearing a condom. She hopes not.