Blind Spot (23 page)

Bernadette reached inside her blazer and touched the butt of her Glock.

Don’t get rushed tonight. Don’t get sloppy.

Why had she let Augie spook her? She withdrew her hand and kept going down the walk that ran along the side of the funeral home. She’d cut her watch short by exiting as the rosary was beginning, but she’d been uncomfortable lurking around Anna Fontaine’s gathering. Praying with the dead woman’s people would have been excruciating.

The evening had been a waste. As she’d suspected, the husband was not the killer. His demeanor was too meek, and his plump hands were not the murderer’s hands. She’d observed the other mourners but noticed no one behaving oddly. She’d been especially watchful of the area around the casket, studying large adult males in particular. Granted, the place was so full it was difficult to scrutinize every person. She’d periodically checked the podium in the hall for fresh signatures—again searching for doctors. She’d even asked a few folks if anyone from the hospital was in attendance, but nothing came of her search for a medical person. Fortunately, no one had asked her much of anything. As Garcia had requested, she’d kept her vigil low-key. Covert. She’d even been tempted to leave her gun at home, but then that damn Augie had dropped in with his ominous words.

They get careless and sloppy. Die.

As the sidewalk emptied into the parking lot, she pulled her blazer tight around her body. The night air was cool and damp and reeked of wet leaves, a smell that belonged to the late fall instead of the spring. Her truck was in the far corner of the tar rectangle, and she sliced a diagonal path to get to it. The blackness of the tar seemed to melt into the blackness of the night. The lot had none of its own lighting. Weak ambient illumination was provided by a streetlamp planted on the street that ran alongside the mortuary.

She was in the middle of the lot, standing between two rows of cars, when she heard the snap of a twig. She froze. Where had the sound come from? Another crack. Her eyes darted to the bushes lining the back of the parking lot. She sensed someone peering out from the darkness, watching her. The man she was hunting?

Bernadette reached inside her blazer and unsnapped her holster. She withdrew her hand and continued walking, but more slowly. She went another fifty feet before she slipped her hand back inside her jacket and pulled out her gun. She kept going, a slow but steady pace. The sound of the street traffic buzzing past the front of the mortuary seemed muffled and distant compared with the deafening thump of her shoes on the tar.

She deviated from the diagonal and cut between two minivans, heading straight for the back of the lot. Beyond the bushes was an alley—the ideal escape route for someone hiding in the hedge.

Bernadette allowed a distance of ten feet between herself and the bushes as she walked from one end of the hedge to the other, aiming the gun straight at the greenery. Was it her imagination, or could she smell him, smell his aftershave? Something cheap and musky. She struggled to maintain a steady, stern voice and to keep her volume below a panicky shout: “FBI…Step out with your hands in the air…I know you’re in there…I heard you.”

When she got to one corner of the back lot, she went around the bushes and crunched along the gravel alley behind it. “FBI…Come out now…Hands in the air.” She saw nothing, but the strip of shrubbery was dense enough to hide someone inside it. When she reached the end of the row of bushes, she stopped walking and scanned the alley, shared on both sides by residential garages and fenced backyards. Every other garage had a yard light mounted to its side. No one in sight.

Bernadette navigated around the bushes so she was back inside the lot and walked until she was in the middle of the line of greenery. She crouched down, arms extended. From the lower vantage point, she ran her eyes up and down the hedge. She stood straight and listened. Silence. Even the traffic from the front of the building seemed to have vanished. She lowered her arms, took two steps back, and waited.

“Long gone,” she sighed. She holstered her gun, turned on her heel, and went to her truck, glancing over her shoulder while she walked.

Twenty-four

Talk about careless and sloppy,
she thought. She lifted her fist to knock and realized his door was already open a crack. Typical bachelor. She didn’t want to barge in and catch him walking out of the shower. She smiled to herself. Would that be such a bad thing? Besides, he’d already seen her half dressed. She issued a two-word warning—“It’s Bernadette!”—and slipped into his place.

“My God,” she whispered. She closed the door and leaned her back against it, afraid to walk farther inside.

Votives glowed on every sill—and there were better than a dozen windows lining the walls. More votives were scattered in groupings on the marble floor, like nighttime campfires dotting an open field. To her right, chunky pillar candles covered the kitchen island and littered the counters. On the left, a forest of tapered candles flickered atop a baby grand—the only visible piece of furniture. The windows were uncovered, no light fixtures hung from the ceiling, not a single potted plant decorated the floor. Yet, with the hundreds of candles, Augie’s place was warm and inviting and romantic.

She took three steps inside. “This isn’t fair, damn you.”

“Not very neighborly,” said a voice behind her.

She spun around. “August.”

He was dressed in black slacks and a black turtleneck finished off by black socks. In each hand, he carried a flute of champagne. He passed one over to her and clinked his glass with hers. “To improved neighbor relations.”

“Neighbor relations.” As she sipped, she ran her eyes up and down his figure. “You clean up real good.”

He motioned toward her black slip dress with his flute. “Slinky. You changed for me.”

“No, I didn’t,” she said defensively. Then, with a smile: “Yes, I did.”

“We both picked black. Instead of that opposites-attract thing, we’re onto that matchy-matchy thing.” He looked down at her feet. “And we’re both shoeless.”

She looked down at her own naked legs and feet. “I thought I’d one-up you in the barefoot department. Plus, my feet are killing me.” She sipped and glanced around the room. “Your mood lighting is amazing, Augie. But where’s the furniture?”

“I keep scaring away decorators,” he said.

“I wonder why.” She took a drink and moved toward the piano. “You were right about tonight.”

He followed her, snatching a magnum of champagne off the kitchen island as he went. “Right about what?”

Running an index finger across the keys, she said: “Needs tuning.”

He tipped back his glass and drained it. “Don’t play much anymore.”

She looked at her fingertip. “Don’t clean much, either.”

“Maid’s on vacation.” He stepped next to her, refilled his glass, and topped off hers. “Right about what?”

Bernadette took a long drink and shuddered at the coldness of it. “Being careful.”

“The wake,” he said. “What happened?” “You don’t want to know.” She swallowed and shuddered again. “Tell me,” he insisted.

She raised her glass toward him. “Maybe after a few more of these.”

She was on her back in his bed, a massive four-poster—the only furniture in the cavernous master suite. Her small figure was drowning in the sea of down blankets and down pillows and satiny sheets. Savoring the sinking sensation, she snuggled deeper under the covers.

Standing by the side of the bed, he looked down at her and asked: “Are you sure about this? You don’t know me.”

His words seemed to be out of sync with the movement of his lips, as if he were an actor in a foreign movie mouthing dubbed dialogue. She’d had way too much champagne. She didn’t care. “I’m sure.”

He peeled off his turtleneck, stepped out of his slacks and boxers. She drank in his body while candles danced on the floor behind him. He was dark and muscled, with a broad chest that was surprisingly smooth, almost hairless.

“I want to see you.” With one hand, he yanked off the top covers. His eyes went to the two gold bands resting against her skin. “What’s that on your necklace?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

He reached down and clamped one large hand over the waist of her panties. “You won’t need these.” In one swift, brutal motion, he pulled them down and off and dropped them to the floor. He fell on top of her and forced her thighs apart with his knees. She reached down to guide him inside her, but he pushed her hand aside. “Not yet,” he breathed in her ear. He wrapped his left hand over her right wrist and brought her arm up over her head, pinning her against the mattress. With his right hand, he kneaded her breasts.

She arched her back, pressing her pelvis into his. “Please.”

“I want you to wait.”

“You’re mean,” she whispered sleepily, drunkenly.

He laughed and moved his mouth to her nipples. “You taste like sugar,” he murmured, his words echoing as if he’d uttered them in a cave or a canyon or their building’s hallway.

Sugar…sugar…sugar.

His breath and his skin were cold, but moisture beaded his forehead. A drop of perspiration rolled down the side of his face and fell between her breasts. With her free hand, she reached down to grab the comforter and pull it over their bodies, but she couldn’t find the cover. “I’m freezing.”

“I’ll warm you.”

“Hurry.”

When he finally entered her, she was wet and ready for him. Still, she gasped. He slowed his thrusts and said: “I’m hurting you.”

“Yes,” she said, wrapping her legs around his hips. “It’s good.”

In the candlelight, she heard his rock music pounding a beat. At the same time, she swore she heard her own favorite singer crooning somewhere distant. Aerosmith and Sinatra, a strange combination. Jack Daniel’s with a martini chaser.

It was the middle of the night when she rolled out of his bed. The candles on the bedroom floor had gone out. In the dark, she tried to feel around the massive bed for him so she could give him a good-night kiss, but her hands became lost in the piles of pillows and humps of down. She gave up and turned around to feel around the floor for her dress and panties. She gathered them in her arms and started to tiptoe out of his bedroom. The door was open to the main living area, and she could see a faint glow. A few candles remained lit out there. She’d douse them before leaving, so the place wouldn’t go up in flames.