“That’s it?” she asked, going after him.

“Let’s get some lunch,” he grumbled.

OVER SOUP and sandwiches at a café in the neighborhood, Garcia told her about Selwyn.

“The bastard conducts seminars for other attorneys so they can beat us.” Garcia picked up his roast beef on a Kaiser, chomped it into a half moon, chewed twice, and swallowed.

“He teaches them how to successfully defend someone against federal charges.” Bernadette snipped off the corner of her grilled cheese sandwich and chewed.

Garcia raised his sandwich to his mouth. “Yeah.”

“Good for him.” She lifted her spoon and sipped some tomato soup.

“Not good for him.” He took another bite of his roast beef.

Bernadette dabbed at the corners of her mouth with a napkin. “Citizens have a right to—”

“I was a speaker at one of his bullshit seminars,” said Garcia. “Afterward I took questions.”

“What’d they do, rip you a new one?” she asked, and took another bite of grilled cheese.

“It was a feeding frenzy,” he said. “They took off on me about the fingerprint screwup in that Portland terrorist case and the legality of that Russian computer crimes sting.”

“Old news,” she said, and took a sip of water.

“They went on and on about warrantless wiretapping.”

“That’s to be expected.”

“They even bitched about the IRS,” he said.

“They heard the word federal and went after you.”

“Like a pack of dogs.”

“Selwyn didn’t warn you?”

“He told me to expect questions about—I don’t know—the increase in bank robberies across the Midwest or something.”

“He set you up.”

Garcia nodded and shoved the last wedge of roast beef into his mouth.

“What about the surveillance?” she asked.

He swallowed and wiped his mouth. “Now he knows we’re watching him, so it won’t do any good. Plus with that Selwyn on his side and living right next door—”

“We’d better think of another way to get at Wakefielder.”

“What did you think of Wakefielder’s reaction, or lack thereof, to the news his ex was dead?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “If he did do it, you’d think he’d be smart enough to act grief-stricken.”

“Could be he’s not good with the dramatics and decided he couldn’t pull them off,” Garcia suggested. “Pretending he didn’t believe us was more in his range.”

They heard ringing coming from the coats piled next to her on the restaurant bench. She set down her spoon, went into her jacket pocket, and produced her cell. Opened it.

“Agent Saint Clare? This is Matthew VonHader.”

She frowned for a moment, and then her eyes widened as she remembered Dr. Luke VonHader’s younger brother. “What can I do for you, Mr. VonHader?”

Garcia set down his glass and leaned across the table. “What can I do for you?” Matthew responded.

She had only been on the phone for a few seconds with this operator, and she was already losing patience. “Look, if you’re calling to—”

Matthew: “I have some … information I’d like to share.”

“What sort of information?” she asked while smiling at Garcia.

Matthew said, “Over dinner.”

“What sort of information?” she repeated.

“Dinner tonight. Seven o’clock,” said Matthew.

“Dinner? I’d like to know what this is about first.” She watched Garcia. He looked ready to jump out of the booth.

Matthew said, “Dinner, or I’m hanging up.”

He sounded like a brat threatening to hold his breath. She rolled her eyes and asked, “Where?”

“Downtown St. Paul,” he said, and gave her the name and address of the restaurant.

The trendy eatery was in walking distance from her office. She’d passed it a hundred times but had never set foot inside. “I know the place.”

“Seven o’clock,” Matthew repeated.

“Right.” Shaking her head with wonder, she closed the phone.

“The shrink?” Garcia asked.

“His younger brother, Matt. I met him at the doc’s office. He wants me to meet him for dinner downtown. Seven tonight. He has ‘information.’”

The waitress came by with the check, and Garcia picked it up. Dug out his wallet and opened it. “Want me to go with you?”

“You might scare him off.”

He set some bills on the table. “I could sit at the bar and keep an eye on you.”

Now Garcia was sounding weird. “What is he going to do, attack me with the pepper mill?”

“I really think I should—”

“Let me deal with this,” she said, sliding from the bench with their outerwear in her arms. Garcia got out, and she handed him his coat.

“What good is the little brother?”

“Could be he knows about Luke’s relationship with Wakefielder, or maybe he can tell me something about Klein and Cameron. He’s real talkative. The receptionist whisked him away before his mouth really got going yesterday.”

“This Matt isn’t hitting on you, is he? That wouldn’t be too smart.”

“I don’t think he’s a Harvard man. He strikes me as a mimbo.”

Garcia’s brows knitted with confusion.

“That’s a male bimbo.”

“Nice. Well, call me when you’re done with him.”

“I’ll call you,” she said, and they both headed for the door.

Chapter 25

WAITERS AND BUSBOYS and customers dressed in black. An effusive menu that read like a romance novel. A wine list as thick as an issue of National Geographic. Tables set with crystal, candles, and white linen. Floor-to-ceiling windows draped in sheer white curtains.

Matthew VonHader looked as trendy as the restaurant he’d selected. He’d eschewed the unofficial dress uniform for Minnesota men—khaki pants and a blue oxford shirt—and had shown up in a sophisticated black turtleneck, black blazer, and black slacks. Bernadette felt like a slouch for wearing one of her work suits.

She’d spent part of the afternoon on her home laptop, trying to research the accomplishments of the younger VonHader. There weren’t many. The older sibling was the overachiever. She’d found scant background, good or bad, on Matthew. Unless hanging out at his brother’s office qualified as a career, he seemed to have no job. He was unmarried and had an appetite for expensive cars and a thirst for expensive booze. She got a glimpse of the Cabernet Sauvignon he’d pointed out to the waiter, and the wine list priced it at two hundred dollars a bottle.

Their twenty-something server—a skinny kid with spiked hair who’d earlier introduced himself as Clive—came up to their table with pad and pen in hand. “Have we decided yet, or would we like a few more minutes?”

Bernadette flipped the pages of the menu. She’d initially intended to stick with a quick salad but decided to stretch out the meeting to increase her chances of getting dirt on the doc. “I’m debating between the pineapple teriyaki salmon and the Moroccan chicken with chickpeas,” she said, glancing up at Clive for guidance.

“Are you in a stew mood?” he asked.

“Not particularly,” she said.

“The Moroccan dish is a tagine of sorts, a stew,” said Clive. “So if you’re not in a stew mood, I’d suggest the salmon.”

She closed her menu and handed it to him. “The salmon it is.”

Clive turned to Matthew. “For the gentleman?”

“I’m not in a stew mood either, but Moroccan sounds good.” Matthew pointed to his menu. “The Moroccan swordfish with yogurt sauce.”

“Excellent choice,” said the waiter, scribbling. He nodded toward the half-empty wine bottle. “If you would like something with your fish, I could recommend—”

“The Cab is fine,” interrupted Matthew.

“Very well, sir.” Clive took their menus and disappeared into the kitchen.

Matthew looked across the table at Bernadette. “The wine police are going to slam me for pairing red with fish, but screw ’em. I’m sick of all whites, especially the Pinot Grigios everybody’s drinking. They’ve been so overproduced and rushed, they’re practically tasteless. The light beer of white wine.”