Lor tapped on the bathroom door. “How’re you doing in there?”

“Give me one minute,” Bernadette said while tucking the damp holster and gun into the bottomless pockets of the sweatpants. These people had been more than generous, and Bernadette decided to meet Garcia at the gate rather than impose upon them any further. She pulled on the ski jacket and was glad to see it hid the bulge of her gun.

The door popped open and Lor stuck her head inside. “Want me to toss your clothes for you, or are you gonna try to salvage them?”

Bernadette had removed her ID and her wallet. As far as she was concerned, the rest of it, even the coat, was a loss. She never wanted to set eyes on the stuff again. She handed the heavy bag to Lor. “Trash it.”

“That’s what I figured,” said the young woman.

BERNADETTE MANAGED to get off of the Three-Hour Tour without giving Wally and Lor a name, real or fabricated. She figured they were thrilled to rid themselves of the nighttime drama as quickly as possible. As she thumped down the dock, she adjusted her grip on her gun. If her assailant showed up for another try, she wanted to put a bullet in the sneaky bastard. Before she started up the steps that would take her back to the park, she stole a quick look at Matthew’s houseboat. All the lights were off now. He and the woman either had gone to bed or had left while she was inside the Three-Hour Tour.

In her mind, she went back and forth over whether Matthew was indeed the villain. He could have seen her and slipped outside to push her into the river, but what excuse would he have given the woman for leaving the boat? Pardon me a minute while I drown an FBI agent, and please freshen up my drink while I’m gone.

Garcia was just pulling into the parking lot in his Pontiac Grand Am. Spotting her standing in front of the fence, he navigated his heap over to the sidewalk. “Hey, lady, need a lift?” His face darkened when he saw the gun in her hand.

She dropped her gun in the ski jacket’s pocket, opened the passenger door, and hopped inside. Slamming the door hard, she said: “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

Garcia turned out of the park. “Why did you have your piece out? Why are you dressed like a bum?”

She reached over and turned up the heat. Looking through the windshield, she noticed the crack was gone. “I see you finally fixed the—”

“Let’s hear it.” He turned the car north onto the Wabasha Bridge and headed for downtown. “Let’s hear it, Cat. Spill it.”

“Not yet.” She looked through the passenger window. The nighttime river would never again seem beautiful and mysterious. She’d tasted it. Nearly drowned in it. A bit of it still clogged her ears and clung to her body. The romance was gone. “I need some time.”

“Time for what?”

“How about we wait until we’re inside?” she asked. “Can we save it until my place?”

“You’d better have beer,” he said, bumping off the bridge and heading for her loft.

“I have beer,” she said, using her index finger to work water out of her ear.

He braked at a red light and wrinkled his nose. “It smells like a swamp in here.”

“Maybe you need to put up one of those air fresheners,” she said.

Chapter 28

WHILE SHE SHOWERED off the stink of the river, Garcia sat on her couch with the remote in one hand and a beer in the other. The instant she cracked open the bathroom door, he punched off the television and looked expectantly in her direction.

“Keep your shirt on,” she said as she tightened the belt around her bathrobe and headed for the kitchen.

He punched the set back on and started surfing the channels. “You’re walking like a grandma.”

“Thanks. You want another beer?”

“I’m good.” He stopped at a program about insects.

“Ants communicate primarily through chemicals called pheromones.”

He dropped the remote on the couch. “Ever wonder how they get those close-ups? I mean, how do they get right into the ant hole—right into the ants’ faces—without disturbing the little turds?”

“What is it about males and nature shows?” she asked, frowning at his selection. “It’s either that or the History Channel.”

“We like war and bugs.” He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees.

“Eureka! This hardworking forager has found a supply of food, a wedge of apple discarded by picnickers.”

She went to the cupboards to check her store of hard liquor and saw a dusty bottle of Jack Daniel’s hidden behind some ancient vodka. “Eureka! The hardworking agent has found a supply of good booze.” She took down the bottle and a shot glass. “Will you be pissed if I call in drunk the rest of the month?”

“She leaves a pheromone trail along the ground as she makes her way home. Before long, the other ants are following this very same pheromone route. Returning home, they reinforce this same path. This in turn attracts more ants.”

“What did you say?” he asked.

“Never mind,” she said, pouring a shot.

“A new obstacle—a fallen twig—blocks the established route to the food supply, so the foragers deviate from the path to find a new trail. If successful, the victorious returning explorer leaves a new trail marking the shortest detour.”

Glancing into the kitchen, he saw her down a shot while she was standing at the counter. “Are you getting lit?”

“The trail is no longer reinforced and slowly dissipates once the food supply is completely exhausted.”

“I’m drinking until the liquor supply is completely exhausted,” she said, and held the bottle up to study the level of whiskey.

He aimed the remote at the bugs and shut off the set. “What happened to you tonight, Cat?”

She poured a second shot and took the glass and the bottle over to the coffee table. She dropped down next to him on the couch. “Someone tried to drown me.”

“What? Who? How’d you end up down by the river in the first place?”

She tipped back another shot and shuddered. The heat of the whiskey sent a pleasant warmth rippling through her body. She set down the glass and rewound to the beginning of her story. “Matt and I had dinner at that fancy restaurant, the one on Wabasha Street with the tall windows and the froufrou curtains.”

“Nice place.”

“You’ll see how nice when I turn in my expense account,” she said.

Garcia sat back against the cushions. “Sounds like he was he trying to soften you up.”

“He wanted me to lay off his big brother and his big files,” she said. “He went on and on about what a great human being Luke is, how he started this suicide hotline and that clinic. While he’s giving me this sales pitch, Little Brother is getting bombed on high-end vino.”

“What about you? Did you drink with him?”

She paused, feeling insulted by the question. “I had a sip or two of wine.”

He glanced at the whiskey bottle.

“Seriously,” she said. “Two sips.”

“I believe you.” He set his St. Pauli on the coffee table. “Did he tell you if the doc knows Wakefielder?”

“Matt claimed not to know the guy. I’m not sure I believe him.”

“Did he give you anything on the dead girls?”

“He said Klein’s mother killed herself and Klein tried to kill herself before his brother took her on as a patient. He said he never heard of Zoe Cameron. Again, I don’t know if I believe that.”

“Did you get anything useful off him?”

She rubbed her hands together. “I—I got a sense that something isn’t right in that family. Something between Matt and Luke. Something … strange.”

“Where does the yacht club fit into this strangeness?”

“It’s coming,” she said. “After dinner, I was worried that he couldn’t drive and suggested he take a cab. He told me he lived in walking distance.”