“So you walked him home.”

“Followed him home, to his houseboat. He lives on a houseboat, or at least crashes there after partying.”

“He didn’t see you tailing him?”

“I’m sure he didn’t,” she said. “I was careful.”

He rubbed his face with his hand. “God, Cat. Why did you tail him? Based on a feeling?”

She ignored his questions and kept going. “I was standing on a neighbor’s boat—don’t worry, they weren’t home—and I saw him arguing with a woman who’d busted into his place. Old girlfriend or something.”

“Back up,” said Garcia. “You saw him? How did you see him? Were they arguing outside?”

“I was watching through the window. They had the shades up and the lights on inside, and it was hard not to see.”

He slapped his hand over his eyes. “Christ.”

“How was it different from any other surveillance? How was it different from the stakeout of the prof’s house? We tap people’s phones and we keep tabs on their—”

“Okay, okay,” he said, holding up his hand to halt her diatribe.

“Anyway, they both suddenly disappeared from the window,” she said. “After a while, she popped back up, but I didn’t see him. I got worried.”

“Why?”

“She—the girlfriend—practically scratched his eyes out when they were fighting. I literally saw blood. His face was bloody.”

“If you were that worried, maybe you should have intervened or called the police.”

“I thought about that.” She looked down at her hands. “But I didn’t have the chance. While I was standing there watching, someone came up behind me and whacked me on the back with a shovel or something. I went in. Went under.”

“Shit.”

She grabbed the Jack Daniel’s, poured a third shot, and laughed nervously. “I’m telling you, Tony, it was cold.”

He rubbed her shoulder through her robe. “Are you okay?”

“My back is still sore, but otherwise I’m fine.”

“I want you to go see a doctor.”

She gave the idea a dismissive wave, tipped back the third shot, and swallowed hard. “I crawled onto the neighbor’s boat. Practically crawled down the dock. Found a houseboat with the lights on. Banged on the door. I made up some story about accidentally walking off the dock. Didn’t give them my name or anything. They gave me a change of clothes and let me use their phone.” She paused. “I need a new cell, by the way.”

“Who hit you? Did you get a look?”

“I don’t know,” she said, cupping the empty whiskey glass between her hands. “They were gone by the time I came up for air. It could have been Matthew. Maybe he saw me through the window and sneaked off his houseboat. Came after me. That’s why I couldn’t see him in the windows. On the other hand, it could have just as easily been a neighbor who’d had too many break-ins already and thought I was another burglar. Or maybe it was another bum.”

“Another bum?”

Rolling the glass between her palms, she fumbled an explanation. She hadn’t intended to tell him about the basement fiasco yet. “Something happened downstairs.”

“What happened? Downstairs where?”

“The basement here.” She felt a knot in her gut as she remembered the scumbag’s body on top of her own. “These two tramps came after me. One of them jumped me.”

“Shit. When?”

“Late Thursday night, after you left. I went back down to try another round with the scarf.” She felt guilty seeing his stressed face. “But I’m okay. They were drunks. I kicked the crap out of the one who tried to grab me. The cops came and hauled them away.”

“Who were they?”

“Nobody. Bums. Drunk bums. They got in through that busted front door.”

“Great. When were you going to tell me about it? Were you going to let me find out from my cousin at the cop shop?”

“I’m telling you now.”

“Christ Almighty.” He got up off the couch and paced back and forth in front of the coffee table. “You’ve been physically assaulted twice in a forty-eight-hour period. Do you really think you should be going in to work Monday morning? You need some time off.”

“So I can sit at home and feel sorry for myself?” She picked up the whiskey bottle to pour a fourth shot, had second thoughts, and set it down. “If you’re worried that I’m going to get all wiggy and go postal at the office, think about it. Who am I going to shoot? Creed’s already dead.”

“Funny.” He stopped pacing and stood in front of her with his arms folded. “I want you to see a doctor first thing in the morning. Urgent care or the ER or whatever.”

“I’m fine.”

“You complained about a sore back.”

“I’m on the verge of something with these drownings,” she said. “I am not going to put the investigation on hold so I can put my feet up.”

He pushed the Jack Daniel’s bottle off to the side and sat down on the edge of her coffee table to face her. “I got an update from the ME today.”

“What did he say?” She pointed at him. “What about the lithium? Did he find lithium in Klein’s wineglass and in her system?”

“He did.”

“Crime scene crew. What about them?”

“Hairs and fibers from Klein’s and Hammond’s. It’ll take the usual eternity to do the DNA deal.”

“What color hair?”

“Blond.” Garcia’s eyes narrowed. “I didn’t even ask before. Is Matthew VonHader—”

“A towhead? You betcha. So is Luke VonHader.”

“Hmmm. With the prof, that makes three blonds.”

“What about prints?” she asked.

“They’re thinking the killer used gloves.”

“Evidence of sexual assault?”

Garcia shook his head.

“He used a condom, then. Or he drowned them, dried his hands off, and left to have sex elsewhere.” She chewed her bottom lip. “What is Minneapolis PD releasing to the media?”

“They’re going to issue a statement saying the tub deaths were homicides. Period. No mention of the river deaths and certainly no mention of Zoe Cameron. If reporters ask whether the tub deaths are related to each other …”

“They have already asked; they’re not that obtuse.”

“… Minneapolis is going to say that possibility is being investigated, which is the truth.”

“Have the cops or our folks mentioned Klein’s neighbor to the media yet? Has anyone hinted to the press that he gave us a description—albeit a crappy one—of Klein’s late-night date?”

“No. That’s still being held under wraps.”

“Let’s keep it that way.” She stood up, crossed the living room, and went over to the windows facing the riverfront. “I’ve got an idea.”

Garcia got up and joined her at the windows. “I’m not going to like this, am I?”

The sight of the Mississippi made her shudder. She buried her hands in the pockets of her robe, turned away from the water, and rested her back against the glass. “Ask them to hold off on releasing the description.”

“I might be able to get them to do that. It’s so general—big blond dude—it’s useless.”

“If word gets out that we have a witness who saw Klein with someone the night of her death, it could put one of our blonds on the move. If the newspapers and TV run a description of the suspected killer—even a vague one—it could really light a fire under someone to get out of town. I want people to think we’re all clueless. I want Wakefielder to think we’ve backed off.”

“Lots of these serial killers get angry if they don’t get some sort of ink. They live to string law enforcement along and read about it in the papers.”

“That’s not what this maniac is after. He’s not into it for the glory. It’s all about his sexual gratification.”

“I’ve seen some freaky stuff in all my years of law enforcement. Torture and sex. Cannibalism and sex. Satanic worship and sex. Rottweilers and sex.” He shook his head. “But this water and sex …”

“It’s not just water and sex. It’s about drowning and sex.” She felt her skin crawl under the terry cloth. Almost unconsciously, she pulled her robe tighter around her body. “Really, if you think about it, that old nautical tale about those sirens or whatever they were. They lured sailors to their deaths. Isn’t that about drowning and sex? This is the flip side of that.”