“We call the boss,” said Thorsson, tossing the dry cleaning behind him and picking up his phone.

“He’s pulling away,” said Red.

“Don’t move,” said Thorsson, punching his cell.

Wakefielder did a U-turn in the middle of University Avenue, cutting in front of two eastbound cars. The drivers laid on the horns. Red didn’t like the aggressive move. “Do you think he saw us?”

“He didn’t see shit. He just drives like a putz.”

“What if we lose him?” Red asked worriedly.

“We can catch up.”

Garcia answered after one ring. “What?”

“Girl got dropped off at home.” Thorsson took the clipboard out of his partner’s hand and gave Garcia the address. “This might be a good time to pump her for information.”

“What makes you say that?” asked Garcia.

Thorsson said authoritatively: “She had a fight with the man. Slammed the door in his face. On top of that, she might have had a couple. Tongue should be good and loose.”

Garcia asked, “Booze this early? You sure?”

“She was swaying and dropping her belongings.” Thorsson cleared his throat. “Uh … I’d be willing to go inside and talk to her.”

“Saint Clare’s in the neighborhood, and I’m thinking she’s going to want to visit with the young lady. Besides, you’re tailing the professor.” Garcia paused. “You are still on him, aren’t you?”

“Like white on rice, sir.” Thorsson looked at his partner and thumbed over his shoulder.

Shaking his head with worry, Red checked his rearview mirror and looked through his windshield. He pulled out of their parking spot and did his own U-turn in the middle of University Avenue. He looked up ahead. Lots of traffic but no Saab.

Seeing what his partner was seeing, Thorsson ran a hand over the top of his head. “Pardon me for asking, sir, but are you sure we should bother with surveillance the whole weekend? How certain are we that this is the right guy? That’s a lot of man-hours based on a hunch.”

“Agent Saint Clare’s got more than a hunch, Agent Thorsson,” Garcia said brusquely.

“Yes, sir,” said Thorsson, his face knotted with anxiety.

“Well, nice work, Greg,” said Garcia. “Pass it on to Red. I know it wasn’t the most exciting assignment.”

Thorsson rubbed his face with his free hand. “Yes, sir.”

Garcia said, “Hang in there. Your relief should be showing up at noon.”

Thorsson closed his phone and turned on his partner. “Fuck! How did you lose him?”

Red came up on a minivan in the left lane and stopped at a light. He veered into the right lane and blew through the intersection, barely missing a station wagon crossing in front of him. A cacophony of horns followed. “It’s your fault. You told me to wait.”

“You know what you’re doing, right? That’s what you told me, you little shit.”

Weaving in and out of traffic, the frenetic delivery van finally reached Raymond, where it took a screeching left. “He’s gotta be back home.”

“He’d better be home,” snarled Thorsson.

“What if he’s not?” squeaked Red.

“Then you’re fucked, my friend.”

SPEEDING BACK to University Grove, the two agents didn’t hear the wails of a police car and a paramedic rig coming down University Avenue from the west.

The squad and the rig took a hard left and screeched into the duplex’s driveway. Ten seconds later, Bernadette pulled up in front of the building. They’d all arrived too late. Animal Print Girl—Zoe Cameron to her family and friends—was already dead.

Chapter 24

“WHAT’S HE DOING right now? find out!”

“Calm down, Cat. You’re going to pop a vein.” Garcia punched a number into his phone. “You know, Greg and the kid have been on top of him the entire time. They’ve been real good about calling in.”

“Find out.”

Garcia held up his hand to silence her while he spoke into his cell. “Give me the latest on Wakefielder … Good … Good … Don’t let him out of your sight.” Garcia closed his phone.

“Well?”

“Raking leaves in his front yard.”

“Of course he’s raking leaves.” She motioned toward the house with a chop of her hand. “This is the last thing he’d do if he were guilty. The last thing!”

The pair stood on the front lawn of the duplex. Behind them, Minneapolis cops moved in and out of the house like a blue swarm. Not a single reporter or photographer pestered them. When private citizens in private homes commit certain acts, they don’t make the news.

“He just had a federal agent harass him at work,” she said. “So why would a smart man—a Harvard guy, for chrissake—turn around and kill someone the very next day?”

“Because it’s the last thing you’d expect him to do?” Garcia offered.

“He wasn’t even in the city limits.” She flapped an arm toward the east. “He was in St. Paul, with an agent and a half watching his ass.”

“Perfect alibi,” said Garcia.

She nodded. “Brilliant.”

“So how does he do it from across the city line?”

Bernadette threw up her hands. “I don’t know. Talks her into it and gives her something to take. Maybe he slips her something before driving her home.”

“ME will do a tox screen, but you saw her. She was literally starving herself. She had a death wish.”

“If it turns out she completely did it to herself, then he’s still culpable,” said Bernadette. “He should have taken her to a hospital instead of dumping her at the door. Even that moron Thorsson noticed she was falling down. Wakefielder should have forced her into treatment.”

“You heard the roommate. Been there. Done that. Didn’t stick.”

The roommate, a red-eyed young man sitting in the back of one of the squads, was hugging his knees up to his chest and rocking. He told Bernadette that he’d been in the bathroom getting ready for his job at a shoe store when he’d heard a door open and someone moving around inside the duplex. Figuring it was Cameron, he left the bathroom to touch base. The girl’s bedroom door was closed. When he hollered and knocked and got no response, he pushed inside and found Cameron on her back on the floor.

Bernadette watched while a crew from the Hennepin County ME’s office carried a gurney topped by a body bag out of the house. “This makes me sick.”

“Let’s think this through,” said Garcia, walking back and forth in front of her with his hands buried in the pockets of his trench. “Alice Bergerman signs up for his Madness in Lit, drops after the first day of class, goes into the river the same month, making her our third victim. Our June drowning.”

Bernadette said, “Kyra Klein is in his Poetry of Suicide course for a month or so. She’s found dead in her own tub Thursday morning. Probably killed Wednesday night. Victim eight.”

Garcia tipped his head toward the ME wagon. “Number nine never had him in class. They went out a couple of times, according to the roomie.”

“So three murder victims with ties to Wakefielder.”

“One murder victim,” corrected Garcia. “Bergerman was ruled a suicide and—”

“It wasn’t a suicide, and you know it.”

Garcia pulled his hands out of his pockets and folded his arms in front of him.

“And today’s death is looking like it was caused by an accidental or intentional OD, or possibly by the eating disorder of the month.”

“These are murders made to look like suicides,” she said as the wagon’s door slammed after the body bag was loaded. “And this last one … God … this is evil genius.”

“It’s entirely possible he’s simply guilty of surrounding himself with attractive train wrecks. Stupid, but not criminal.”

“To have your young, pretty, skinny ex-girlfriend croak the day after a federal agent questions you about the murders of young, pretty, skinny girls is …”