She gave him the same lame excuse she’d given the police officer: “The bureau is looking for more office space downtown. I couldn’t sleep and thought I’d check it out. See if it was something we could fix up and use.”

“But it’s one in the morning.”

Wanting to get him off the subject, Bernadette pointed through the glass as the squad cars pulled away with their seedy passengers. “When you gonna fix that front door, Harry?”

“Well, as I was telling the officers …”

“This was a bad deal.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Saint Clare,” he said, tugging harder on his beard. “I’m really sorry.”

“You keep saying that. Stop saying that, and let’s talk about some changes around this joint.” Hands balled at her sides, Bernadette realized she was starting to lose it with the caretaker. That rage she’d felt earlier in the evening was bubbling up again, and she willed herself to calm down.

“Changes?” Harry gave his beard a hard yank. “I can’t afford no changes. I need this job; I got bills to pay. Besides, Mr. Murrick’s will don’t allow for no changes.”

A former sports bookie and burglar (his clumsiness with numbers had doomed the first profession, and his weight had sabotaged the second), Harry had been a pro bono client of Augie’s for years. The soft-hearted attorney had made a cushy arrangement for the failed felon in his estate: Harry could have the caretaker’s job for as long as he wanted it and could stay in the condo indefinitely, free of charge.

“What I mean is, we need to get stuff done on a more timely basis,” she said, trying to soften her tone. “That’s all.”

He nodded. “We’re on the same page, Miss Saint Clare. I’m gonna get on that front door at first light. I swear to you.”

“The basement?”

“Then I’m gonna fix that door and swab the stink hole with a case of Clorox. One thing at a time.”

“That’s what I mean,” she said. “It doesn’t have to be one thing at a time. I’m sure the association would approve subcontracting some of these repairs if they’re too much for you to handle.”

His posture straightened as he pulled himself up to his full height of five feet and a couple of inches. “I don’t need no help. I can do the job just fine.”

She sighed and put a hand on his shoulder. “Go get some sleep, Harry. You look beat.”

“You okay by yourself tonight? You got a boyfriend who can come stay with you? Those scumbags must have scared the shit out of you.”

“I’m good,” she said. “You go on to bed yourself.”

“All right, then.” He turned and padded to his door. He took his collection of building keys out of his pants pocket and ran the mess through his fingers, looking for the key to his own door. He slipped one in the lock, turned to the left and right. Nothing. He pulled the key out and tried another.

Bernadette shook her head and went to the elevators. Pushed the Up button. While she waited for the door to open, she checked her watch. Dawn was hours away. Glancing down the hall, she saw Harry was still fiddling with his door. She yelled at him, “Need some help?”

He looked up from his keys. “Don’t you worry about me none.”

The elevator door opened. Bernadette put her foot on the threshold to keep the car open until she finally saw Harry get inside his condo. She stepped onto the elevator and punched her floor.

Closing her eyes, she leaned back against the elevator wall while the car went up. She wished for all the world that she did have someone to stay with her until daybreak. Opening her eyes, she checked her watch again and tried to imagine what Garcia would say if she gave him a call at this bizarre hour and asked him to come over. Why was Garcia the one she thought of tapping for such an intimate favor? Truth be told, she didn’t have anyone else. Her boss was her best friend. Pathetic.

The car stopped and she stepped off. As she walked down the hall, she told herself that she didn’t need Garcia or anyone else. She’d tough the night out by herself; she’d been doing that very thing for years.

Chapter 15

BERNADETTE PUSHED OPEN the door to her loft. She’d left it unlocked while she was running around the building; she’d no longer be so cavalier about her home’s security. Closing the door tightly, she turned the deadbolt and slid the security chain into place. While she flipped on every light, she continued to mull over the idea of calling someone. She picked up her cell and studied it, as if the screen would tell her whom to call or what to do. Finding no answers, she hurled the phone onto the couch and marched into the bathroom.

She stripped and tossed her clothes into a corner. Come morning, she’d chuck the works straight into the trash chute, including her tennis shoes. Cranking the water as hot as she could stand it, she stood under the shower and scrubbed for twenty minutes. She went through two towels drying herself off, rubbing her skin red. She wondered if she could have picked up any fleas from the drunk. Should have gone back downstairs with her gun and finished the both of them, she told herself.

Wrapped in a robe, she walked out of the bathroom, picked up the television remote, and collapsed onto the couch. She surfed through every cable channel twice before stopping at an old black-and-white horror flick starring Boris Karloff. It was one Frankenstein movie or another: Frankenstein. Bride of Frankenstein. Son of Frankenstein. Ghost of Frankenstein. House of Frankenstein.

After five minutes of angry villagers, she decided she couldn’t get into it and punched off the set. She changed into a nightshirt, brushed her teeth, and went upstairs to try to sleep.

Going down on her knees beside the mattress and propping her folded hands atop the bed, she launched into her nightly bedtime ritual. Though she’d been raised Catholic, she’d long ago stopped attending Sunday mass. The only time she set foot in a church was to use the tranquil physical space for her sight. She hadn’t stopped believing in God, however, and every night said the only two prayers she remembered from childhood.

“‘Our Father, Who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name …’”

Saying the words out loud muffled the commotion in her head more effectively than the loudest Frankenstein movie. By the end of the second prayer, the Hail Mary, her body was starting to surrender to exhaustion. She made the sign of the Cross, got up off her knees, and crawled between the covers.

THE MOB CHASED her along the riverfront, their torches casting bright reflections in the nighttime waters of the Mississippi. Bernadette could feel her heart pounding in her chest as she ran from the shouts. She didn’t know why they were pursuing her. She couldn’t understand what they were yelling at her. The only word she could make out was the name they’d given her.

Monster.

She stopped running and turned to plead with them, ask them to spare her life. They froze fifty feet from where she stood. The hollering hushed. Bernadette looked into the crowd of men and women and children, their furious expressions illuminated and animated by the dancing flames. She recognized two of the faces: they belonged to the bums from the basement.

“Monster!” screamed a female voice in the crowd.

“Monster!” repeated a raspy male voice. One of the bums.

Suddenly the entire throng was chanting the word.

“Mon-ster! Mon-ster! Mon-ster! Mon-ster!”

“Why?” she yelled at them. “Why am I a monster?” “Mon-ster! Mon-ster! Mon-ster!”

At her side, her fists clenched in rage. She reached into her jacket, pulled out her Glock, and aimed into the center of the crowd. “FBI!” she hollered. “Drop your weapons!”