Blind Spot (5 page)

“But he seems to know
something
about sailing.”

“Or fishing. Rock climbing. Michael used to climb, too. They have to know a lot about line. Who else? Magicians. They know about ropes. Or could be it’s just a guy who likes to tie knots. Knot guys have their own clubs and magazines and newsletters.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“I met this one guy in New Orleans. A river guy. Worked on a barge. What was the name of his group?” She paused. “The International Guild of Knot Tyers. Something like that. They practice tying knots and investigate new knots and have meetings about knots.”

“Whatever floats your boat.”

“Was the guy up north tied the same way?”

“Don’t know.”

“We’ll have to find out. His hand turn up?”

“A kid’s hunting dog brought it home.”

“Lovely,” she said.

“At least the pooch didn’t eat it.” Garcia shoved his own hands in his coat pockets. “We’ll have to see if they got shoe prints around that body. Check for a match. See if we’re dealing with the same guy.”

“It’d be nice if we got matching shoe casts. Nice, too, if the rope job is the same. Regardless…”

Garcia finished her sentence: “It’s gotta be the same guy.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

“We keep implying the perp’s a
he,
by the way.”

“An assumption, but not a wild one. The judge wasn’t a small person. Can’t see a female overpowering him. This slicing-and-dicing business, can’t remember the last time a woman got that creative with a tool. Takes a lot of strength. Stamina.” She stood up and wrote in her notebook while she talked. “How often do you see a gal behind the counter of a butcher shop? It’s a guy thing. Cutting parts off. Hacking meat and bone.”

Garcia hunched his shoulders against the cold. The drizzle had stopped, but it was still windy. “Hacking with what? A knife?”

She went back around to his side of the body and stared at the stump. “Whatever the instrument, had to be sharper than hell. That’s a mean, clean chop.”

He coughed and paused. Didn’t say anything for several seconds. Then: “Need me to clear the scene for you?”

How many times had she heard those words or something close to them?
Need me to clear the scene for you? Want some time alone? Want to hold it? Get a feel for it?
What they really want to say is:
Do that thing you do. The parlor trick. That spooky, ESP, bogeyman mumbo-jumbo. The things-that-go-bump-in-the-night thing that you do. Don’t give us the details on how you do it or why you can do it. Just do it, and do it right this time. Solve the case and go away. Don’t embarrass us.

“Need me to clear the scene?” he repeated.

“Not necessary.” Bernadette stuffed her notebook in one jacket pocket, and from the other fished out her gloves. She snapped them on. She took out her keys; she kept a pocket knife on the chain.

Garcia eyed the tool. “Doing a field autopsy?”

Bernadette went over to the dead man’s ankles and crouched down to study the rope wound around his legs.
The killer had to touch the ends to do the clove hitch,
she thought. She reached over and grabbed the end of rope threaded through the loop and sliced off a few threads. She cupped the threads in her right palm and scrutinized them. They wouldn’t be much to hang on to, but she didn’t want to take more and compromise evidence. The strands would have to work until she found something more substantial. She closed her knife against her knee and dropped her keys back in her jacket. “Anyone got a bag?”

Garcia patted his pockets. “Not on me.” He looked over at the cops. They shook their heads.

“Forget it.” With her free hand, she pulled out another glove, shook it open, and dropped the threads inside it. She balled up the glove and shoved it in her right jacket pocket. She stood up, peeled off her gloves, and tucked them in the front pocket of her jeans.

“What else?” he asked.

“The severed hand. I’d like to see it.”

“ME’s guys have got it.”

“Let’s check it out,” she said.

He looked at the mangled arm and back at her, as if he expected something more. “You’re done here?”

“Done,” she said flatly.

“Let’s take the long way back. Easier going.” He stepped outside the triangle.

“You two through, then?” asked one of the uniforms. “ME wants to pack him up and roll him outta here.”

Garcia looked at Bernadette, standing inside the triangle. “You good, Agent Saint Clare?”

She ran her eyes around the body one last time. “I’m good.” She stepped over the tape. “Thanks,” she said to the closest cop.

“Anytime.” He thumbed over his shoulder at the corpse. “This made my week.”

Garcia led Bernadette through the woods and onto the paved path. She had to walk fast to keep up with him: his legs were long, and so was his stride. “How do you like your new office?”

“Lonely,” she said, a step behind him. “Quiet in the basement.”

“That’ll change come the week after next.”

A gust of wind made her shiver. She’d forgotten how cold early May could be in Minnesota. “What happens the week after next?”

“The rest of the St. Paul crew gets back from vacation.”

“Crew?”

“Okay. Not a crew exactly. One agent. You’ll like him. Good, but a little odd.”

She pulled a tube of ChapStick out of her pocket, ran a bead along her lips, and dropped the tube back in her jacket. “What’s his name, my oddball crewmate?”

“Creed. Ruben Creed.”

“Who’d he piss off to end up in the basement in St. Paul?”

Garcia stopped in his tracks. “What?”

Four

She’d already put her foot in it, and it wasn’t even her first official day on the job. “Sorry,” Bernadette said quickly, stepping next to her boss.

Garcia pivoted around to face her. “Do me a favor. Take those shades off when I’m talking to you, Cat. That’s what they call you, right?”

She slipped off her sunglasses. “Cat’s good.”

He looked at her eyes and blinked. “Why Cat? Like a kitty?”

“Like a dog.” She folded the sunglasses and hooked them over the neck of her sweatshirt. “The guys in New Orleans gave me the name. Catahoula. Cattle-and-hunting breed that’s popular down south.”

He frowned. “I don’t get it.”

“Catahoula leopard dogs. They’re known for having eyes of two different colors.”

“Is ‘Cat’ okay with you?”

“Beats that formal stuff.”

“Formal stuff?”

“
Agent This. Agent That.
Hate it.”

He folded his arms over his chest. “I know you’ve been through some personal crap.”

“Thought they didn’t fill you in on all that.”

He ignored her crack and kept going. “And I know you’ve had some professional issues as well.”

“
Issues.
A good word for it.”

He sighed, unfolded his arms, and didn’t say anything for several seconds. The sound of a speedboat tearing downriver filled the void. He ran both his hands through his hair, folded his arms again, and looked at her. “You’ve got some special talents. I respect those talents.”

She’d already torpedoed herself with her big mouth and figured she might as well go for broke. “Then why am I isolated in a bunker in St. Paul? Why can’t I play with the other kids in Minneapolis? Afraid that I’m gonna infect the rest of the class? That I’m gonna scare them? Or maybe I’ll give them ideas. Ideas that don’t fit into Quantico’s textbooks. Is that why Creed is in St. Paul? He scare you, too? What’s his
special talent
?”

“Jesus Christ. It isn’t about you, okay? We have space problems—as does every other federal agency in every other city in the country. The newest agent in the office always gets St. Paul. As soon as we get a couple of empty desks through transfers or retirements or whatever, you can head across the river. Join the rest of the inmates in the asylum on Washington Avenue. Then I’ll send the next newbie to the cellar. But I gotta tell you something. Some of my best folks would rather be tucked away at the Resident Agency in St. Paul. Creed’s one of them. He’s been in St. Paul forever. Loves it here.”

Her eyebrows arched with skepticism. “Loves the basement?”

“He gets to be away from the SAC,” he said, referring to the special agent in charge. “Then there’s the asshole ASACs like me.”

She raised her palms in surrender. “The basement is wonderful. St. Paul is good. It’s all good. I’m sorry I opened my mouth.”

“This is not some punishment. I asked for you, lady.”

Not even attempting to hide her disbelief, she crossed her arms over her chest. “Why?”

“That al-Qaeda cell you ferreted out in St. Louis. Your work on that RICO bust in Baton Rouge. Serial bank robber in New Orleans.”

“That last one was my partner’s doing.”

“Bullshit,” he said. “I checked around. It was yours, all the way. You don’t like to take the credit, do you?”

“Some of my colleagues would say too much of my work relies on…” She searched for the right word. “Hunches.”

“Professional jealousy.”

“My bosses haven’t approved of my methods, either.”

“Proof’s in the results, and you’ve had stellar results.” He skipped a beat before he added: “Most of the time.”

Those last four words made her cringe.
Most of the time.
He’d added that qualifier so she knew how cognizant he was of her previous missteps, the episodes when she’d come up with blanks in trying to use her sight, or sabotaged cases by misinterpreting what she’d observed. “Appreciate the kind words,” she said dryly. “Really. The basement in St. Paul is great. Hell. Minneapolis Division
does
cover the Dakotas. Could have ended up in a root cellar in Minot.”

“That’s the spirit,” he said flatly.

Around a bend in the path rattled a gurney flanked by four men. “Can we take it?” asked one of the ME crew.

“All yours,” said Garcia. He and Bernadette stepped off the trail and let them by. The pair stepped back on the path and continued walking. “Did you find a decent place to live?”

“Bought a condo. Loft in Lowertown.”

“You can roll out of bed and walk to work.”

“In five minutes,” she said.

“You run? There’re some great paths along the river.”

“What have they got for dirt trails close to the city? I’ve got a bike.”

“I’ve seen bicycles along the river downtown. On the trails right here in the park, for that matter. Lots of bikes.”

“Not
my
kind of bike.” She grinned. “That’s okay. I’ll figure it out. Reorient myself. Figure out what’s where.” She paused and then asked: “Still got some churches downtown?”

“Three Catholic churches. Some other denominations, too.”

“Catholic works.”

The walking path emptied out into the picnic area. The pair cut through it and headed for the parking lot. Half of the uniforms and all of the boats had cleared out. The paramedics were gone. The Vang brothers had left for home. The cops’ crime-scene van was still there, but there was no activity around the vehicle. The ME’s hearse had a guy leaning against the driver’s side. A news helicopter hovered overhead. “There they are,” said Garcia, his eyes to the sky.