Bernadette wasn’t at all certain she would be entrusted with tying up the loose ends, or be allowed to take credit for cracking the cases in the first place. Even if she and Garcia managed to keep the use of her sight out of the reports, there would be other questions raised about how she’d conducted her investigation. For starters, the cops and the ME were asking how her suspect, though shot through the gut, could have managed to crawl out of the tower and fall to his death.

“He was alive when I called you,” she told Garcia for the fourth time. “I did not push him. He jumped. Crawled, actually.”

“After you shot him.”

“Yes.” She glanced through the window, at the tower across the street. “What else do you want from me?”

“Your gun’s been turned over. His revolver’s been recovered. We’ll have to wait for ballistics. The crime scene crew is crawling all over the shooting gallery that used to be his kitchen.” He paused. “I have to ask …”

“What?”

“Do you need some more time on the gun range or what? Why couldn’t you hit him the first twenty times?”

She flexed her injured hand, a reminder of all the weirdness that had taken place while she and Garcia were stalking their prey in the house. “I was afraid if I shot him, I would also be …” Her voice trailed off.

“Let’s keep that out of the reports, shall we?”

“Good idea.” She looked over at all the blue uniforms mingling with the black FBI jackets. “Who from St. Paul Homicide—”

“Ed has it all under control.”

“Your cousin drew the short straw on this?” She sank back against the car seat. “I suppose he’s got questions about this tower thing, too.”

Garcia rubbed his face with his hand. “You could say that.”

Her shoulders sagged. “I’m sorry if I’ve put you in an uncomfortable position.”

“I want you to go home and get some sleep.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Please stay put, Cat.”

“I will.”

“I mean it. This is serious now.”

“I know it is,” she said.

“Don’t leave the house without talking to me first.”

“I won’t go anywhere.”

“Don’t even go downstairs to collect your mail without calling me.”

She nodded. “I understand.”

“I’ve gotta hang around,” he said tiredly. “I’ll have one of our folks take you home.”

“Not Thorsson,” she said. “He’ll lose me.”

Garcia’s face lightened for the first time since they got in the car. “Not Thorsson.”

EVEN THOUGH she felt as if she’d been trapped in Garcia’s car forever, dawn was still a couple of hours away by the time she got dropped at home. She was pretty sure Charles’s suicide had happened after the papers’ deadlines, but there’d be something on the TV news later in the morning. She made a mental note to leave the television off for the day and stay away from newspapers for the rest of the week. She walked into the bathroom, flipped on the lights, and peeled off her clothes. She activated the shower and hopped in the tub. The hot water felt good. She heard her phone ringing and ignored it.

Tired and aching, she threw on a bathrobe and hobbled into the kitchen to grab a bottle of water. The phone again. She picked it up off the counter. “What?”

Garcia said, “Did you see the morning paper?”

“You told me not to pick up the mail.”

“Meet me at the VonHader place. Don’t go in. Wait for me.”

“Both men are in jail,” she said. “There’s no one there.”

“Their lawyer sprang them already.”

“But why—”

“My turn. I got a bad feeling,” he said.

She hung up and stared at the phone. She was rubbing off on Garcia.

BERNADETTE PARKED a block over from Summit and jogged to the mansion, instinctively feeling the inside of her jacket pocket before remembering her gun was gone. When she got to the front door, Bernadette raised her fist to knock but hesitated. She had no idea what this was about, and Garcia had asked her not to go inside. Reluctantly, she stepped off to one side of the porch to wait.

She heard a vehicle rumbling down the street, but it wasn’t her boss; it was someone in a beat-up station wagon. She saw the driver slow in front of a neighbor’s house and toss a folded newspaper from the car window. It landed on the front stoop. Not a minute later, an early riser came out in his sweats and picked up his morning read.

Bernadette wondered if the carrier was going to stop in front of the VonHader place. She stepped away from the porch windows and watched while a newspaper landed on the sidewalk leading up to the steps.

“Shit,” she muttered. Afraid someone inside was going to come out for the paper, Bernadette took cover behind the army of statues. Several minutes went by, and she wondered if she was being too cautious. As she started to stand, the porch light flicked on. Ducking back down just in time, she heard the deadbolt slide open.

Peeking out from behind a statue, Bernadette saw the doctor step out onto the porch. “Damn paper boy.” Wrapping his robe tighter around his body, he pushed the screen door open and went outside to collect the morning news.

Immersed in the headlines, he paused in front of the door. With the porch light directly over his head, Bernadette was able to get a good look at his face. His mouth dropped open, and he put his hand out to steady himself against the doorframe. Whatever he was reading, it horrified him. “God, no,” he said under his breath.

The Dow is down, Bernadette thought cynically.

As he folded the paper in half and tucked it under his arm, his expression changed. Relaxed. It was almost one of surrender, and it disturbed Bernadette. He disappeared through the door, closing it and locking it behind him.

Something was wrong, and she was impatient to get inside. Abandoning her hiding spot, she went up to the porch windows to scan the street for Garcia’s car. She fished out her cell to call and then dropped the phone back into her pocket. He’d be there soon enough. She left her post at the windows and sat down on a concrete bench to wait.

______

INSIDE, LUKE VONHADER sat in front of the fireplace with a cup of coffee and a yellow legal pad. Tucked between two burning logs, the morning headlines erupted in flames and quickly collapsed into ash. Already yesterday’s news. Shuddering at the bitterness of his dark brew, he wished there had been cream in the house. He had meant to pick up a few groceries Monday, but the day had gotten away from him. Clicking his pen, he began to write.

Dear Liz:

All of the documents are where you’d expect them. If you have any questions, call Chip or one of his assistants. Susan in particular is up to speed on our holdings, as she handled matters related to my sister’s passing.

I suggest you sell our Scottsdale and Twin Cities properties and relocate to the East Coast. The private schools are good, and your mother would enjoy having you closer. Of course, it is entirely up to you.

DO NOT believe what you read in the papers and see on television. I know you will try to shield our daughters from the ugliness, but it will be difficult. Again, a move might be best for all concerned.

Kiss Em and Mel for me and tell them to take care of each other. I apologize for leaving my girls like this, but you more than anyone understand these demons of mine. I have lived with them for so long, they have taken over. Forgive the heartache I have caused you and try to move forward.

All my love, Luke

He set the pen and pad down on the coffee table and finished his drink. He carefully tore the sheet out of the pad and folded it in half, running his thumb along the crease. He folded it two more times and stood up to tuck the rectangle into the front pocket of his robe. He’d thought about finding a fireproof place to hide the letter, but he was confident the fire department would douse the fire before his body was incinerated.