“I can show you our books. We’re highly profitable.”

“We don’t need to see your books,” Garcia said.

Bernadette said, “We know our people, and they won’t go for this drowning business. Hoses are one thing, but that tank is scary.”

“I guess I screwed myself when I insisted that you stay and watch.”

“Better to find out at this early juncture,” she said, pulling her gloves tighter over her fingers.

“What can I do to change your mind?” Masterman laughed dryly. “I really want your money.”

“As Mick Jagger penned, ‘You can’t always get what you want,’” said Garcia.

She extended her hand. “We’ll call you.”

Masterman trapped her small hand between the two of his and flashed the wolf grin again. “If you ever want to meet outside of work and discuss it further over drinks …” Garcia glared at Masterman, and the director released Bernadette’s hand. “Or not.”

The two agents headed for the exit, letting the heavy door slam behind them.

“How did it go?” asked the fuchsia sweater as the pair hurried past the lobby desk.

“Swimmingly,” said Garcia, punching a plastic palm as they made their way to the glass doors.

THEY DECOMPRESSED while standing together in the parking lot behind her truck. “Well, that was illuminating,” said Bernadette.

“Right,” said Garcia, fumbling behind him to try to undo her necklace.

“Here, let me,” she said, and he turned around and scrunched down so she could unfasten the chain.

“Is the professor still on your short list?”

“This didn’t change anything,” she said. “He’s our main suspect.”

“Motive?”

She looked toward the building they’d just exited. “Some sort of sexual perversion involving drowning.”

Garcia watched while she put the necklace back on. “I hope you’re ready to see more sick shit. You and I have second shift tonight.”

She wrapped her coat tight around her. “At least that gives me time to go home and shower. I really feel like I need a shower.”

BERNADETTE KEPT the windows rolled down as she navigated the truck back to St. Paul. The cold autumn air roared into the cab and slapped her face hard, knocking the image of the drowning tank to the back of her head.

Masterman’s explanation for why men latched onto certain fetishes wasn’t a revelation. She knew that the way people were raised influenced their adult habits. As an FBI agent, she’d witnessed the criminal behaviors passed from one generation to the next in a troubled family. Molestation victims became molesters. The children of thieves grew up to make their living by cheating and stealing. Kids raised by drunks became drunks themselves. Hearing a pornographer’s spin on childhood influences, however, pushed the idea to the forefront of her thinking. Had Professor Wakefielder suffered some sort of water-related trauma? It could be basic: he’d nearly drowned as a child or watched a playmate go under.

Chapter 20

IT WAS GOOD to be home. It had been a tough day, but it was going to be a fine night. He sipped and savored the lava flowing to his gut, joining the fire that was always there. As he set the Scotch down on the bathroom vanity, he took stock of the reflection in the mirror. Fair hair and brightly colored eyes. Properly sized nose for the face. No real wrinkles and a minimal number of lines. Mouth a little too full and feminine, perhaps. Overall, it was a handsome face when viewed in the right light.

It was an amiable face that betrayed nothing of the tumult beneath the surface.

He reached down and scratched himself through the robe. Performing the music of Giuseppe Verdi, the voice of Andrea Bocelli washed from the master bedroom into the tiled cubicle. He dropped the bathrobe onto the floor and stepped into the stall. He closed the glass door and activated the hot water. A rain-shower spray needled his scalp.

While he lathered, he thought about the little blonde he’d met that day. So small he could hold her under with one hand.

Closing his eyes, he tilted his face up to the spray and imagined what it would be like not only to hold her under but to wrestle with her in the water. She would writhe and roll and push against his body. Scream and scratch and kick. The two of them would become a single entity, a multilimbed monster churning the waters in a magnificent death thrall.

While a heavy aria from Ernani provided the background, he reached down, wrapped his hand around himself, and worked his imaginings into an erection. He didn’t take it to completion; he needed to reserve himself for the woman waiting for him in the next room. He would do her differently from the rest; he would keep her around for a while. An extended courtship.

HIS CLOTHES SAT in a heap in a corner of the dim bedroom, the only light coming from the open door of the bathroom. Curled in another corner was what appeared to be a second mound of clothing.

The mound moaned.

He’d stuffed an oily rag in her mouth and twined her wrists together in front of her with fat, coarse rope that burned and scratched her skin every time she moved against it. She couldn’t see her ankles, but they felt bound together in the same fashion. To make her more cooperative, he’d shot her up with something that had caused her to pass out. When she awoke, she found herself bound and naked, curled up on her side in a fetal position. The blanket thrown over her body reeked of urine and feces. Was it her waste or someone else’s? As limp as a rag doll, she couldn’t lift her head or roll onto her back. Music floated over her and around her. She didn’t recognize it. An opera? She hated classical music.

Bastard was in the shower; she could hear the water running and the son-of-a-bitch humming. He was happy as hell. She wished he’d slip and fall and crack his crazy skull open. She prayed to hear the thud. Closing her eyes, she practiced the positive-thinking techniques that one of her therapists had taught her. She visualized a SWAT team in black bursting through the door, their guns drawn. She visualized his body riddled with bullets, oozing blood like a sieve. She visualized walking out of this place. Stupid cow, she told herself, and opened her eyes to her dark reality.

The worst part was that she’d come to him willingly. Eagerly! She should have guessed there was something wrong with him. His lovemaking had been too intense. Angry. Really, he’d seemed off to her from the moment they met, but she’d been desperate to have a man, especially one who seemed interested in listening. Now her desperation was going to get her killed. Most pathetic was that no one would notice her absence, at least not soon enough to do her any good. That was her fault, too. Having perfected her bridge-burning skills, she’d isolated herself from anyone who ever gave a damn about her personally. When it came to work and school, her boss and her classmates had grown accustomed to her spotty attendance. They’d write off her disappearance as yet another one of her psycho episodes.

The shower lurched to a stop, and the rag doll shuddered. He’d be back in the bedroom soon.

HE CAME OUT with a towel wrapped around his waist, his chest glistening with water. “You’re awake,” he said flatly.

Eyes narrowing into dark razors, she visualized a knife going into his back, stabbing him again and again. Die, you crazy fucker! Die right now! She flinched as he neared her corner, expecting him to pounce. Instead, he sat down cross-legged on the floor across from her.

“Do you know why you’re here?” He reached out and caressed her cheek with the back of his hand.