She steered her Ford Ranger onto Shepard Road and glanced at the Mississippi River on her left, taking in the citrus-colored fall landscape while she had the chance. Autumn in Minnesota came and went in a heartbeat. In a couple of weeks everything would be brown and gray. Then winter would settle in for its interminable stay. She didn’t mind. She’d lived long enough in states that seemed to have minimal change from one season to the next.

After five miles of moderate traffic, she merged onto Minnesota 5 going west and took that to 494 heading west. The interstate was a parking lot, and it wasn’t even rush hour yet. She slowed behind a semi and then came to a dead stop behind the wall of metal. Punching on the radio, she was just in time to catch a news report on the latest drowning.

“… this afternoon identified the dead woman as twenty-three-year-old Kyra Klein, a student at the University of Minnesota. She was the second university coed found dead in her home this week. On Monday, the body of twenty-year-old Shelby Hammond was discovered by her housemates. The Hennepin County medical examiner is conducting autopsies to determine how the young women died.”

Bernadette turned up the volume and held her breath, waiting for the report to mention that bathtubs figured in each of the deaths.

“Authorities refused to comment on whether the two deaths are related. A source within the Minneapolis Police Department said that at least one of the women could have died from an accidental overdose of prescription medication but declined to release further information.”

“Feed ’em shit and keep ’em in the dark,” Bernadette said to the radio. She was pleased the police had kept the details under wraps.

“Student leaders and university officials are holding a joint press conference in Morrill Hall this afternoon to address student safety concerns. University police have already announced additional patrols.”

“Like that’s going to do any good,” Bernadette muttered.

“The two deaths come on the heels of a series of suicides that rocked the university and sent demonstrators into the streets. Since April, four young women have drowned in the Mississippi River at the Minneapolis campus. Claiming a serial killer may have murdered the young women, students and relatives of the victims demanded that the investigations into those deaths be reopened. There is no word yet on whether authorities plan to do that.”

Bernadette waited for the report to raise the possibility that the two most recent deaths were linked to the ones in the river.

“In sports, the Minnesota Wild have a—”

Relieved, Bernadette reached over and punched off the radio. The truck in front of her rolled ahead, and she did the same. She plucked the directions off the seat and glanced at them. Her exit was about a mile up. The studio wasn’t far from the freeway.

_______

THE DIRECTIONS LANDED her in a parking lot adjacent to a building that resembled one of those windowless, big-box wholesale clubs. The only thing missing was the cart corral. She saw no signs, but the address stenciled on the glass double doors matched the one on the printout. She pulled into a parking spot between a silver Mercedes sedan and a black BMW convertible. She got out and leaned against the back bumper of the truck, waiting for her business associate.

Minutes later Garcia pulled in with his heap and parked in a far corner of the lot. She was glad he hadn’t driven a bureau car. As he walked toward her, she saw he’d ditched his trench and was wearing a white shirt without a tie. The dark slacks and blazer were still government issue, but they worked.

He came up next to her with his hands in his pants pockets. “I didn’t have time to change, so I did some editing. What do you think?”

She looked around the lot and saw no video cameras. She reached behind her neck and undid her chain. “Turn around.”

“I’m gonna look like a lizard,” he whined as she clasped the necklace behind him.

“That’s what we’re after,” she said. “Unbutton another button, too. Show a little chest hair.”

He did as he was told. “Now how do I look?”

“Like a g-man wearing jewelry.”

As they walked up to the entrance, they passed more luxury vehicles. Garcia looked longingly at a white Hummer that was as big as a house. “If this FBI gig doesn’t work out, maybe we should seriously invest in the porn industry,” he said.

“Probably has better fringe benefits,” she said.

Passing through the glass doors, they immediately stepped into a compact lobby furnished with black leather furniture, fake palm trees, and glass-topped tables. She eyed the magazines scattered on a coffee table, expecting to find copies of Playboy and Penthouse. Instead, she saw Bowhunting World and the latest Cabela’s catalog. Were they in the right building?

As they approached the long, glossy reception desk at the back of the lobby, however, she was reassured. The woman behind the desk wore a fuzzy fuchsia sweater over breasts the size and shape of musk-melons. Her long feathered hair was silver-blond, and her earrings were loops as big as bracelets. Bernadette cast a sideways glance at Garcia and decided he looked a little too happy about this assignment.

Bernadette took off her trench, draped it over her arm, and went up to the counter with a smile stretched across her face. Garcia stayed back, taking in the mountainous scenery. “Hello. We’re with Capital City Venture Group.”

“Oh, yes. They’re expecting you.” The woman jiggled out from behind the desk, displaying long legs barely contained by a short black spandex skirt and fuchsia stilettos. “Follow me to the set.”

Bernadette felt like a midget librarian in her green suit as she jogged to keep pace with the twenty-something woman. Garcia continued to bring up the rear, and Bernadette knew why.

The trio went down a long hall lined with framed poster-size photos of young women posing like vintage pinups. Busty blonde on ice skates, falling on her butt. Busty blonde hanging upside down on a trapeze, her short skirt flying. Two busty blondes having a pillow fight. Busty blonde cowgirl wielding a six-shooter. Busty blonde Mrs. Santa in furry red boots. Busty blonde in a stars-and-stripes bikini bottom, tossing a sailor’s cap in the air. Bernadette bet that in the original posters, however, the girls weren’t wearing nipple rings.

“Uh … no brunettes,” noted Garcia, struggling to come up with a neutral comment about the artwork.

“I never noticed,” said the busty blonde in the tight sweater.

“Actually, they all look like you. Is that you?” Bernadette asked.

The young woman giggled. “I wish. Someday maybe. I’ve got to work on my look.”

“You’re gorgeous,” said Bernadette, and she meant it.

“I need a nose job, and I’ve got to drop ten,” she said. “My ass is as wide as the back of a school bus.”

“That sounds like a jerk boyfriend talking,” said Garcia as they walked.

“Yeah … well … it is.” She pushed open one side of a metal double door and held it for the two visitors. “My boyfriend is the director.”

“Which one is he?” asked Bernadette, looking toward a brightly illuminated cluster of people and equipment moving around in back of the warehouselike space.

“I don’t see him right now,” said the woman. “Ask anyone and they can point him out. Skip Masterman. He looks like that model on the cover of all the romance books. Muscles and long hair. Big nose. What’s that hunk’s name?”

“Fabio,” Garcia volunteered.

She nodded. “That guy. Skip looks like that guy.”

While they talked, Bernadette kept her eyes on the commotion across the cavernous space. She saw men and women in jeans clambering around cameras, lights, and other equipment. They were all facing a pool of light. That was where the action was taking place. “If he’s that hunky, what’s your boyfriend doing behind the camera?” Bernadette asked distractedly.