Blind Spot (47 page)

“Then again, what does it matter?” asked Augie. “He’s dead. Saved the courts the trouble of a trial; plus, he managed to take some other scum down before he bit the dust.”

She finished off her beer and set the bottle on the table. “You’re in a vindictive mood this evening.”

Rolling his empty between his palms, he said somberly: “Try getting murdered. Changes your outlook completely. I’d like to come back as an electric chair.”

“Is there such a thing as reincarnation?”

“How should I know?”

“What good are you? You can’t tell me anything.”

He set the bottle on the table. “That isn’t true. Isn’t true at all. My very presence here tells you it ain’t over when we think it’s over.”

She got up from the couch and went to one of the windows to glance at the river. The lights illuminating the water had never seemed sharper. Brighter. “I didn’t think death was the end. I have to know what comes next.”

“I can’t tell you what comes next for you,” he said to her back. “I can only show you what came next for me. What difference does it make? All you need to know is, we continue to exist in some form after our bodies quit on us.”

“That isn’t good enough.” Turning away from the window, she faced him and rubbed her arms over her sweatshirt. She felt a draft. Maybe her houseguest had brought it inside with him. “I need more information.”

“Why? Do you want to see if you backed the right horse?”

“What?”

“The right faith. The correct god.”

She laughed dryly and headed for the kitchen. “I’m not much on organized religion.”

“You’re Catholic.”

“I
was
Catholic. Now I’m not anything.” She pulled open the refrigerator and rested her hand against the top of the door.

“Once a Catholic, always a Catholic.” He paused, and then added: “I know you still pray.”

She didn’t want to think about
how
he knew. “So what? That doesn’t make me Catholic. Since when do you need a church membership card to pray?” She thought:
This is insane; I’m discussing my faith with a dead guy. And he’s drinking my beer.

“So why do you need details about the hereafter? For argument’s sake, tell me this: If you knew a certain religion had the correct god dialed in, what would you do? Would you run out and join that church?”

“I doubt the Almighty gives a damn where I bend my knee.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

She scoured the shelves inside the fridge. A stick of butter. A carton of eggs with one egg inside. A bowl of mushy strawberries. She pulled her head out of the refrigerator and glared at him. “Know what? I don’t want to talk about religion anymore. Boring and depressing.”

“Whatever you want.” He put his feet up on the coffee table. “So what’s the verdict? Got anything to eat?”

“Looks grim, counselor.”

Oscar barked twice and jumped off his owner’s lap. The dog clicked across the floor and joined Bernadette in the kitchen. He stood next to her and stared up into the fridge.

“Oscar,” yelled Augie. “Get out of there.”

Bernadette leaned into the fridge and pulled out three green bottles of St. Pauli and one brown bottle. She examined the oddball; it had a buffalo head on the front. “How about a Headstrong pale ale?”

“Never heard of it.”

She slammed the fridge door and carried the bottles to the living room, with the dog at her heels. “Liquor store was clearing out some singles. Wanted to try something different.” She deposited the bottles on the coffee table and sat down on the couch.

He got up off the chair and sat down next to her. He picked up the brown bottle and read the label. “Big Hole Brewing Company. Belgrade, Montana. I’ll take a chance.” He popped off the top. “Can’t kill me, right?”

She watched him take a drink. “If you don’t like it, you can give it to Oscar.”

He hiccupped. “No. It’s good.”

She opened another St. Pauli for herself. “There’s plenty of other beers in the fridge. Not much else.”

He took a second guzzle and burped. “We could order a pizza.”

She checked her watch. “Kind of late to be filling our bellies. I’d never get to sleep, and I’ve got to get up and go to work in the morning.”

Oscar hopped up on the vacated chair, circled the cushion twice, and plopped down into a ball. “Oscar,” said Augie. He pointed to the floor. “Down.”

“It’s okay.” She took a sip of St. Pauli. “He doesn’t shed, does he?”

“Not even when he was alive.”

She took another bump off her beer and set the bottle on the table. Checked her watch again. Who was she fooling? She wasn’t going to get any sleep. Not after tipping a few with a dead guy. Handsome dead guy. “You know what? I
could
go for a pizza. Know who delivers to downtown this late on a Sunday?”

“There’s a joint on West Seventh Street. They make great deep-dish.”

“Deep-dish? That’ll take forever.”

“All I’ve got is time.”

Fifty-two

Her visitors left as suddenly as they’d appeared. She got up off the couch to put the pizza leftovers in the refrigerator, and when she turned around, they were both gone. Dead guy and his dead dog. Relieved and exhausted, she wound her way up the steps to her sleeping loft and collapsed on top of the covers.

She woke up Monday morning with a headache and a gut ache, but both started to dissipate as she showered. While she stood in the bathroom toweling off, she wondered if he was watching. She put it out of her head; there was nothing she could do about it if he was spying on her.

She pulled on one of her usual suits—dark slacks and dark blazer over a white blouse—slipped her Glock into her holster, and headed outside.

The sidewalks were crowded with men and women dressed in everything from suits to jeans, and the downtown streets were jammed with cars and trucks and buses and delivery vans. The sharp spring air was a splash of cold water on her face, and smelled of exhaust and rain-dampened concrete. On her way to the federal building, she stopped to pick up a cup of coffee and a scone. She debated getting two of each, in case Garcia dropped by on his way to Minneapolis, but decided her boss could get his own.

While she jogged down the steps to the basement, she slipped off her sunglasses. She walked into her office and started. One of the two empty desks across from hers was now occupied. Agent Ruben Creed, her cellmate in the dungeon, was back from vacation this week. He had his back to the door. He was a skinny African-American guy with close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair. She could see he was tall; he was hunched over his computer like a giant comma. She remembered Garcia had said Creed loved the cellar in St. Paul and had been there for years. She told herself to avoid making any wisecracks about their digs; Creed could take offense. She frowned at the bag in her hand; she should’ve gotten a pastry for her coworker. She walked up to him and said to his back, “How were the Cayman Islands?”

He swiveled around in his chair and looked up at her, his mouth agape. “Huh?”

“Isn’t that where you went? How was the weather?”

He nodded, his eyes locked on hers. “Hot.”

She forced a smile and wished she’d kept her shades over her eyes. She tried to think of something more to ask about his trip. “Heard you’re big into scuba diving. What’s that like? I’ve always wanted to—”

He interrupted her. “Don’t try it; it’s too dangerous.”

She thought she detected the remnants of a Southern accent and used it as an opening to tell him a little bit about herself. “Where’re you from originally? The job shuffled me around Louisiana for quite a while.” He didn’t answer her question, and she didn’t know what else to say, so she extended her paper bag. “How about a welcome-back scone?”

He looked at the sack and back at her. “Who’re you?”

Quite a greeting, she thought. She pulled back the bag and thrust out her hand. “Agent Bernadette Saint Clare.”

He stared at her hand for a moment and slowly extended his own. “Hey.”

Bernadette thought he seemed uncomfortable touching her. She wondered if he’d heard stories from New Orleans. He probably thought she was going to read his mind or mess with his brain or infect him in some way. She let go of his bony hand and held up the sack. “Sure I can’t interest you in breakfast?”

“No thank you,” he stammered, his eyes again focused on her face.

Bernadette headed for her own desk, sat down, and dropped her bag on top of a pile of folders. She reached inside the sack and fished out the drink and the scone. She lifted off the cup cover, sipped, and shuddered. The coffee was cold and bitter. She snapped the lid back on. She took a bite of the scone. As dry and flavorless as sawdust.

Garcia walked in as she was stuffing the cup and scone back in the bag. “That looks good.”

“Looks can be deceiving.” She set the sack in the wastebasket next to her desk.

Garcia sat on the edge of her desk. “Let’s get out of here and get some good grub. There’s a place in the skyway. I’ve got something to tell you, and I’d rather do it with a hot meal in my stomach.”

She thumbed over her shoulder to the desk behind her and said in a low voice, “What about…?”

Garcia glanced over at where she was pointing. “What?”

She turned in her chair and was surprised to see Creed was no longer at his computer. She ran her eyes around the room. “He was here a minute ago. Did you pass him in the hall?”

He frowned. “Who?”

“Agent Creed.”

Garcia swallowed once and asked, “What did he look like?”

She said in a whisper, so Creed wouldn’t hear if he suddenly walked back in: “String bean with graying hair. Southern string bean, by the sound of his voice. Dark-skinned…”

“Cat.” Garcia got up off her desk and stood straight.

Her eyes widened as she looked up at her boss. “Don’t tell me that wasn’t him. That someone snuck past security and…”

“Nobody snuck past anybody.” Garcia rested one hand on the back of her chair. “You described Creed perfectly, right down to the drawl. Southern string bean with hair.”

She scanned the room again. “Where is he, then?”

Garcia rubbed his forehead with his hand. “On his way home—in a body bag.”

Bernadette felt an icy draft and twined her arms around her body. She looked straight ahead. She didn’t want to face Garcia, didn’t want to see the fear in his eyes.

“He died over the weekend. Some sort of accident. We’re collecting details. By the looks of it, he was killed…”

“Scuba diving,” she said numbly.

Garcia took his hand off her chair. “How did you know?”

She bent her head down and covered her face with both hands. Through her fingers, she answered: “He more or less told me.”

“Shit,” spat Garcia.

She took her hands down. “Sorry if I’ve upset you. I know you worked with him a long time. Sorry.”

“Stop apologizing.” He walked over to Creed’s desk and eyed the monitor on top. “Next time you see him, ask him what happened to the files on—”

She blurted: “I can’t believe how well you’re taking this.”