Blind Rage (13 page)

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.

The murderer’s mouth goes to her throat. Though his face is close to his partner’s, Bernadette still fails to get a clear picture of her. In the dimness, all she sees is a white oval slashed with almond eyes.

The woman beneath the killer brings her arms up to hold him to her, but he doesn’t want that. He grabs her wrists and brings them up over her head, pinning her arms against her pillow. Bernadette senses this is about to get rough, and she feels her own body tense. She wishes she could release the scarf and end the unsettling movie, but she must see this thing through. Bernadette needs to know if he kills the woman after having intercourse with her.

He releases her wrists. The woman rocks wildly under his thrusts and clutches the rails of the headboard in an attempt to brace herself. She opens her mouth. Is she crying out in pain or pleasure?

Suddenly it all goes black. The connection is severed.

BERNADETTE CLOSED
her eyes and relaxed her fist, letting the scarf drop from her hand. Opening her eyes again, she saw only blackness. It was like having a sack pulled over her head.

“Tony,” she said to the void.

“I’m here.”

She turned her head toward his voice and blinked twice. Her regular vision cleared and she saw his face. Her breathing was rapid and shallow, and she struggled to speak. What escaped from her lips was a panted exclamation. “Oh my God.”

He stood from his crouched position. “What did you see?”

“A woman.”

“Not another victim.”

“No…not yet, at least.” The words came, but they were labored. She felt as if she were talking while running a race. “He was making love to her, but it wasn’t tender. It was cruel…I could feel it…I can still feel it.”

“What do you mean? What do you feel? What was he doing to her? Did he hit her? Choke her?”

“No, but…it was rough,” she panted. “He was rough.”

“Can you describe the woman or where they were? Their surroundings?”

Garcia sounded desperate, and she wanted to help him, but nothing she had seen could immediately lead them to a particular person or place. “I don’t have specifics…I’m sorry.”

“Can you give me
anything
we can use? Is there something I should be calling in right away?”

“No,” she snapped. “I’m sorry. You know how this works.” She scrambled to her feet and stumbled backward against the wall. “This was nothing but a waste of time. God, what if another one turns up dead tomorrow!”

“Take it easy,” said Garcia, grabbing her by the shoulder to steady her.

“I’m fine.” She pushed his hand down. In the next instant, she wanted to throw herself against him.

He took a step back. “What’s wrong with you?”

She opened her mouth to retort and quickly closed it. The murderer’s mood had become her own, and she had to regain control. “I need a second,” she said, leaning her back against the wall.

“You’ve got it,” he said.

Closing her eyes and concentrating, she worked to moderate her breathing and cool her temper. She inhaled deeply and released the air slowly. In and out. She was having a harder time clearing her system of the lust. Her genuine desire for Garcia was fueling the residual passion of the killer. Perhaps leaving the basement and putting some space between herself and her boss would help. Opening her eyes, she said, “Let’s get out of here, Tony.”

“Fine by me.”

She felt something under her feet. She’d been standing on his coat. “I’m sorry,” she said, and stepped off it.

Garcia retrieved the scarf and slipped it back inside the plastic bag. He picked up his trench, gave it a snap, and draped it over his arm. “I’m sure you got something we can use. Maybe if you sit down and think about it. Tell me what you saw.”

“First let’s crawl out of this sewer,” she said, and headed for the stairs. She was light-headed and paused before placing her foot on the first step.

Garcia put his hand in the middle of her back. “You okay?”

His touch sent a hot, dizzying rush through her body, and she gripped the rail for support. “I’m good,” she croaked, and started up.

Garcia thumped up the steps next to her, sniffing his coat as he went. “Should we just head to your loft?”

“Sounds like a plan,” she said, while thinking it would be a huge mistake.

“I’m starving. How about you talk while I fry those steaks you promised me?”

She was famished, too. It had to be the killer’s hunger. Watching through his eyes had roused more than one sort of appetite inside her. She pushed open the door to the first-floor hallway. “Steak sounds great.”

Chapter 13

WHILE GARCIA FRIED THE STEAKS, SHE SAT AT THE KITCHEN
table with a Post-it pad in front of her and a glass of Chianti in her hand. She’d hoped to organize her thoughts before recounting what she’d seen, but she was too unsettled to sort through it. Taking a sip of Chianti, she stole a peek at the chef. He was a big reason she remained flustered. He’d peeled off his jacket and tie and rolled up his shirtsleeves. She set down the wine, picked up a pen, and clicked it repeatedly.

Fork in one fist and a beer in the other, Garcia turned around and eyed the yellow pad on the table. “Not that goofy shit again. I don’t know anyone else in the bureau who does it that way.”

“Good. That means I’m special.” She glanced over at the stove. “Getting a little smoky in here, Emeril.”

He took a sip of beer and pointed the bottle at her. “You look like hell.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

She rested her elbows on the table and dropped her face in her palms. “Fuck,” she said through her fingers.

“What?”

She put her hands down. “The woman I watched. Suppose she’s dead right now? I can’t think of a single thing I saw that would help us. I’m sitting here, as useless as tits on a boar.”

“I love it when you talk farm talk.” He turned around, took another drink, and flipped the steaks. “Maybe you should kick back for the rest of the night. Relax and clear your head. We can hash it over in the morning.”

“I want to talk about it while it’s fresh in my mind.”

He took a bump off his bottle. “Your call, but it’s not as if you’re the only one assigned to this.”

She didn’t like how this conversation was going and started clicking the pen again while glaring at his back. “Don’t tell me you’re relying on that moron Thorsson to work this.”

“I’m relying on the cops. It’s not a federal case yet, and you know it.”

“Yes,
sir
,” she said with mock stiffness.

“Stop with the sir crap.” Pointing the greasy fork at her, he added, “And stop with the Thorsson bashing. You’re not in competition.”

“Yes,
sir
,” she said, and took a sip of wine. “We’re all on the same team,
sir
.”

He bumped off his St. Pauli and stifled a burp. “That isn’t even remotely funny.”

She grinned. “I think it is.”

“These are done,” he declared, and shut off the stove. He carried the frying pan over to the table. “Got any steak sauce?”

“In the fridge.”

He yanked open the door and stuck his head inside to rummage around. “I don’t see it.”

She suddenly became lost in watching his body as he bent and moved.
Snap out of it! He’s splattered with grease and smells like fried meat.

“Here it is.” He came back to the table and sat down with the bottle. He speared the smaller steak with the fork and dropped it on her plate. Deposited the big T-bone on his.

“Want to hear about what I saw?”

“Once again, is there anything we can use right away?”

“No,” she said.

He shook the steak sauce, unscrewed the cap, and poured a puddle on his plate. “Then let’s save it for dessert. It’ll still be fresh in your head after dinner, won’t it?” He picked up his knife and fork and started sawing the meat.

He’d lost his edge and intensity, she thought. Garcia was relieved that her sight hadn’t helped. As far as he was concerned, his delay in getting her the scarf had had no impact on the case. But what if he’d gotten the scarf to her sooner? What would she have seen then? Bringing it up now would only aggravate him. She picked up her fork and knife and started cutting into the steak. Maybe Garcia had given up on her sight, but she hadn’t. She could always give it a try again later.

AFTER DINNER,
she cleared off the table and started filling the sink with water.

“Why are you doing dishes the old-fashioned way?” he asked as he fished another beer out of the fridge. “Miss the farm?”

“I miss a working dishwasher.”

“Can’t the caretaker fix it?”

She squirted a stream of dish soap into the sink. “Maybe he could, if I could find him.”

“This joint doesn’t believe in maintenance, I take it. I mean, how long has that security door out front been busted?”

“Since I moved in.”

He set his beer down on the counter and stood next to her, loading dishes into the sink. “Go put your feet up.”

Garcia was too close, and she had to get out of the kitchen before she got the both of them in trouble. Drying her hands on a towel, she said, “I am not going to turn down an offer like that.”

“What kind of cheesy renovation job did that August Murrick do on this building?” he asked as he dipped his hands into the suds.

Lowering herself onto the couch, she glanced around nervously. She was sure Augie was gone, but she didn’t want to tempt fate. “Can we not talk about my dear departed neighbor?”

“Fine by me,” Garcia said, scrubbing the frying pan. “He was your dead buddy, not mine.”

She kicked off her shoes and set her feet on the coffee table. “I could get used to this treatment.”

“I’ll be sending you a bill.”

She polished off her wine and raised her glass. “When you’re through over there, I could use another one of these.”

“Is that how you ask?”

“I could use another one of these,
sir
.”

After he finished the dishes, he refilled her glass and dropped down onto the opposite end of the couch with his St. Pauli. “What did you see and when did you see it and why won’t it help us?”

“I saw a room with a four-poster bed and an armoire.”

“That’s the complete description?”

“Sheer curtains on the windows.”

“That could be—”

“A bedroom anywhere. A hotel or motel room. The honeymoon suite at a bed and breakfast. Hell. It could have been the set of a porn movie.”

“By that you mean you saw them having sex?”

She took a sip of wine. She was still struggling to keep her libido in check, and this conversation wasn’t making it any easier. “Remember my limited point of view,” she said. “I saw what he saw.”

“Which was?”

“His bedmate. A pale woman with long brown hair.”

Garcia finished his beer and set the empty on the coffee table. “You said he was rough with her. What did you see him do…I mean, what did his partner do that indicated he was being rough?”

She put the wineglass to her lips, tipped it back, and drained it. “He grabbed her breasts and…”

Garcia raised his hand to stop her. “If this is making you uncomfortable—”

“No, no,” she said, and set her wineglass on the table. “We’re all adults here.”

“What else? If you saw him fondling her, you must have gotten a look at his hands or arms. Tattoos? Scars?”