“Could be he figures this is so outside his previous MO, we’d never tie it to the river deaths.” She pointed a finger at Garcia. “Let’s let him think that. Let him think we’ve made no connection between this and the river deaths. He’ll get cocky and make a mistake. Plus it’ll keep a lid on the rioting citizens. Tell the cops and the ME to talk like this thing is an isolated murder.”

“That won’t be hard. The police still don’t buy the idea that the river deaths are anything but suicides.”

“Doesn’t sound like you believe they were murdered either.”

“I’m waiting to see what you come up with.”

“Fair enough.” She started for the door. “Make sure the cops keep us out of it.”

“Again, not hard. They love keeping us out of it.”

“Our public information guy didn’t blab to the media that we’ve got agents in this house?”

Garcia followed her out into the hallway. “We treat reporters like mushrooms. Feed ’em a load of shit and keep ’em in the dark.”

“That’s a line from a cop movie. A police detective says that’s how he treats federal agents.”

“That’s our line. They pilfered it from the FBI and turned it against us. Bastards.”

The two agents stepped to one side as a man and a woman from the Hennepin County ME’s office clattered up the stairs and into the hallway with a stretcher carrying an empty body bag. They unfolded the gurney’s legs, and then the woman reached over and unzipped the flat sack, preparing it for an occupant.

“Can we take her?” asked the man.

Garcia thumbed over his shoulder. “Last bedroom.”

“One of your fellas downstairs told me he was going to be there for the autopsy,” the woman said.

“Agent Thorsson?” Garcia asked.

“Yeah. He told me to tell you,” said the woman.

“That’s awfully nice of him to keep me updated,” Garcia said with a tight smile.

“Thorsson,” Bernadette said under her breath.

The two agents fell silent as they watched the grim pair wheel the hardware down the hallway. There were few sights as chillingly final as that of the medical examiner’s gurney on its way to pick up a corpse.

BY THE TIME Garcia and Bernadette left the house, the sea of blue uniforms had thinned out considerably. The pair stood on the sidewalk in front of the house, taking in the epitaphs on the decorative tombstones. “I like that one,” said Garcia, pointing to See! I told you I was sick!

Bernadette turned away from the yard and pushed her sunglasses tighter over the bridge of her nose. “I’ll be in the cellar if you need—”

Garcia snagged her elbow. “Cat. Wait a minute.”

She pivoted around to look at him. His face was knotted with worry. She pulled off her shades. “What’s the problem?”

He glanced up and down the sidewalk to make sure they were alone, then said in a lowered voice, “As you were coming up the stairs, I caught the tail end of your conversation with Thorsson.”

“For God’s sake, I was just giving him grief. I’m not going to crack up and—”

Garcia raised his hand. “I know, I know.”

She fingered her sunglasses. “It’s been six months since the shooting, Tony. I’m over it.”

“No one gets over it.”

She squared her shoulders. “I’m handling it, then. Okay? Seriously, why bring it up now? Is it because Thorsson opened his big mouth?”

“Between that mess and this case and your own history—”

“My history?”

“It’s just that—well, you seem so resistant to the possibility that the river deaths are suicides. It’s like you’re taking it personally.”

Her mouth dropped open as she realized why Garcia had been hesitant to bring her into the drownings, and she didn’t know if she should be angry or touched. Torn between the two emotions, she stumbled over a response. “I’m not … It’s not personal.”

“You sure this isn’t dredging up some bad stuff? Want someone to talk to tonight?”

“The only reason I talked to a shrink after the shooting was because you made me,” she said. “The last thing I need is to go back to one of those operators.”

He gently squeezed her shoulder. “I was talking about me, Cat. You want me to come over?”

Before answering, she studied his face. She thought she saw something new there but wasn’t certain. “I’m good, Tony.”

“You sure about that?”

She nodded. “I’m sure.”

“I’ll check in tonight, with an ETA on those files.”

“The scarf, too. Don’t forget the scarf. I’ve got a feeling about it.”

While Bernadette walked back to her car, she replayed the expression she’d seen on Garcia’s face. Was it concern beyond that of a boss for an underling? Her eyes must have been playing tricks on her. She slipped her sunglasses back on her face.

Some days she despised her damn eyes.

With those damn eyes, Bernadette could see things. She could hold something touched by a murderer and watch through the killer’s eyes. Problem was, her talent wasn’t a science. She could be seeing through the murderer’s eyes in real time or be observing something from recent history. An execution could pass before her eyes, or she could be saddled with mundane scenes of everyday life: A pair of hands scrambling eggs for breakfast. An old movie on a nondescript television set. The pages of a paperback book at bedtime.

If she landed in the murderer’s eyes during his dreams, she saw bizarre images that would be no help at all to a case. She’d suffered through the visions of maniacs who were hallucinating because of their drunkenness or drug use or mental illness. Again, no use when it came to solving a crime. She could misinterpret what she saw (not hard to do since her vision was filmy when using her special sight) and lead an investigation in the wrong direction. Send the bureau running after the wrong person. Even in the most ideal settings (she often went to empty churches to help her concentration) she came up with blanks. Conversely, it could come on unexpectedly with a casual brush of her hand. Each time she used the sight, it sapped her of energy. Worst of all, it could put her in the same emotional state as the killer, leaving her furious or frightened or homicidal.

Certainly she’d had successes over the years—otherwise the bureau would have cut her loose a long time ago—but her missteps were what attracted the most attention from the front office. A transfer routinely followed the failures. She’d landed in Minnesota the previous May after getting shuffled around Louisiana, where her co-workers had nicknamed her “Cat” because she had weird eyes like the South’s Catahoula leopard dogs. She had a brown right and a blue left.

Garcia liked calling her Cat, and she didn’t complain. He’d asked for her when none of the other bosses wanted her. She was thrilled to be back in her home state, even though she had no close family left there. The farm had been plowed over by developers. Her parents and only sibling, a twin sister, were dead. So was her husband.

HEADING BACK downtown, Bernadette steered the Crown Vic onto the interstate. Halfway to St. Paul, the traffic slowed and then stopped. “I hate cars,” she muttered, and tried to see around the minivan parked in front of her.

While waiting for the logjam to break, she struggled to keep her mind off of the skeletons that the drowning case was bringing to the surface. She punched on the radio and turned up the volume on an ancient Rolling Stones tune, hoping to blast away the memories filling her head. The last thing she needed was to relive that sunny September day, three years ago, when Michael hanged himself on the water with his own boat rigging.

Chapter 4

BERNADETTE WAS STUDYING the directions on the back of a frozen turkey dinner when she was interrupted by a knock.