They watched two movies, a Johnny Depp film about a writer wigging out and turning homicidal, followed by a Robert De Niro flick about a widower wigging out and turning homicidal. Garcia had made both picks. They sat together on the couch but remained firmly planted on opposite ends. She was going to suggest the Glenn Close–Michael Douglas classic about the jealous mistress wigging out and turning homicidal but decided there was too much rough sex in it and it might set her off again.

It was close to midnight by the time Garcia went home, but she was still too wound up to go to sleep. He’d left the bagged scarf on the coffee table next to the paper containing the doctor’s name. Both objects seemed to be calling to her, but one more than the other, and she couldn’t resist.

She ran upstairs to change into her rattiest jeans and a sweatshirt. She’d take the scarf for another round in the basement. While Garcia had disliked the hole, she’d been pleased with how quickly it had allowed her to connect with the killer.

Chapter 14

RETURNING TO THE same Urine-Scented corner of the basement, she lowered herself to the floor and leaned her back against the wall. The kitty had gone into hiding. Bernadette heard a scuffing noise, however. It was cleaning up after a visit to the makeshift litter box. She shifted uneasily, wondering if it had been a mistake to come without some sort of barrier between her jeans and the disgusting floor. Something else made her uneasy as well, but she tried to dismiss it as her earlier nerves acting up.

She set the bag on her lap and stared at the scarf inside it, wondering what it would bring to her at that late hour. Would he be sleeping next to his lover or fleeing her home with her body left behind in the tub? Would he linger, admiring her corpse in the water?

The scraping grew louder, and she knew it wasn’t an animal. She shoved the bag into her pocket and jumped to her feet.

A gravelly voice: “Hey, Blondie. What’s the rush?”

Two long-haired men in jeans and tattered camo hunting jackets were walking toward her. Had they been there all along, or had they just come in off the street? Had they been there when she and Garcia were down earlier? Didn’t matter; the building’s defective doors were to blame. “Stop right there,” she said.

The shortest of the scruffy pair froze, but his taller buddy—the one who’d addressed her—kept coming. He had an empty whiskey bottle in his right hand. He grinned, exposing a black gap where a row of front teeth had rotted away. “You got a tight little ass on you, Blondie.”

She took a couple steps backward but kept her attention on the tall one. His eyes were buggy, and he reeked of liquor. She instinctively reached under her sweatshirt to the waist of her jeans and felt her heart sink. Her gun wasn’t there; she’d left it upstairs after changing. Her eyes traveled beyond the men to the stairs behind them.

The tall one stopped a few yards away from her, threw his head back, and laughed, revealing a mouth filled with more rotting teeth. “You’ll never make it, Blondie.” He grabbed at his crotch with his grimy hand. “You’re gonna have to do the both of us, and then maybe we’ll let you out of here. Maybe.”

Shorty found his courage and his tongue and came up next to his partner. He swayed and slurred and pointed a filthy finger at her. “Fuckin’ right about that.”

“Fellas,” she said calmly, “you don’t want to do this. I’m an FBI agent.”

They were unimpressed. With a grunt, the taller man swung the whiskey bottle against the side of a pillar, knocking off the bottom. Brandishing the jagged half, he resumed his march toward her. “Gonna fuck you and cut you up good.”

The short guy was hanging back again. Bernadette figured she could weave through them and reach the stairs. She made a dash for the hole between the two. Shorty stayed where he was, but his pal spun around and went after her.

She was halfway up the stairs when she felt a hand around her ankle. He pulled her down, and they both slipped and fell on their faces on the steps. Miraculously, he lost his grip on the bottle. She heard it clatter and land on the concrete below them. The guy let go of her for an instant but then snagged her ankle again—this time with both hands. She yanked her leg away and turned. From a sitting position on the steps, she raised her foot and smashed his face with the bottom of her sneaker.

He stayed on his knees on the stairs. “Bitch! I’m gonna kill you!” He crawled up a step and lunged for her. Fell on top of her.

“Get the fuck off!” Pushing against his chest with both hands, Bernadette struggled to raise his body off hers. He smelled of sweat and booze and mildew and urine. The stairwell of a dirty parking ramp. He felt like a bag of wet sand, damp and heavy and immobile. She slid out from under him and, still on her back, pushed herself up two steps.

He crawled after her. “I’m not done with you, cunt!”

She cranked her foot back and landed another blow to his face, hitting him square on the nose.

He tumbled down the stairs and landed at the bottom, flat on his back. “Bitch,” he gurgled, holding his face with both hands. “You broke my nose!” He tried to get up and fell back with a confused look on his face.

She sat where she was for a moment, enjoying his pain. They were lucky she didn’t have her gun.

She jumped up and darted up the steps, ran all the way back to her place, and called the police.

AMAZINGLY, THE two drunks were still in the basement when the police arrived.

A young female uniform met Bernadette at her loft and took a statement. Bernadette followed her downstairs and stood in the hallway watching through the front glass doors as the two interlopers were loaded into the squad car by a team of policemen.

The female officer, a slender African American woman, put her hand on Bernadette’s shoulder. “You need me to call someone to stay with you tonight?”

Bernadette said, “I’m good. The bastards will be locked up. Was nice of them to stay put for you.”

“We’re not dealing with geniuses here. Plus they were both drunker than skunks. Maybe high, too. Talking crazy talk.”

“Crazy talk?”

“Bogeymen in the basement.” The policewoman closed her notebook and tucked it into her jacket.

“Appreciate the quick response,” said Bernadette.

“We aim to please,” said the officer, pivoting around and heading down the hallway.

“Thanks again,” Bernadette said after her.

The policewoman opened the door to leave and said over her shoulder, “Someone will contact you for follow-up. They’ve both got outstanding warrants, so neither one is going anywhere anytime soon.”

Harold Winston, the building’s elusive caretaker, padded barefoot out of his first-floor condo and came up next to Bernadette. His massive gut hung over the elastic waistband of his sweatpants, and his curly white beard was so long that it met up with the fur poking out of his V-neck T-shirt. The snowy hair on his head was sticking straight up on top and matted on the sides. Even though he was still in his fifties, he looked ancient. Bernadette thought he could pass for a Santa Claus fallen on hard times. The only thing that gave away his younger age and strength were his thick arms. Santa never had a set of pipes on him like Harry’s.

He tipped his head toward her and said in a low voice, “Cops banged on my door and told me what went down, that you ran into a couple of lowlifes in the basement. You okay, Miss Saint Clare?”

“Ducky,” she said as she watched the red lights flashing outside.

“Really sorry about this.” He paused and tugged on his beard. “But I gotta ask: What were you doing down there, and so late at night?”