“The jalapeño tartar sauce is to die for.”

“I know,” she said, looking up from the menu at the man standing next to the table. As he slid into the booth to sit across from her, she inhaled sharply and felt all the warmth drain from her body. Leaning across the table, she whispered, “What are you doing here? How did you get here? How can you be here?”

Creed looked at her with mock innocence. “What do you mean?”

“This isn’t your haunt. This is miles from downtown, nowhere near our office.”

“I used to eat here. Our ASAC’s right, by the way. The walleye is hard to beat.” He nodded at the menu sitting on the table between them. “The New York strip isn’t too shabby either.”

“How can you be here?”

He threw his arms up and rested them over the top of the bench. “Haven’t you figured it out? That pile of concrete on Robert Street isn’t what’s haunted.”

Looking over at the waitress, Bernadette was relieved to see her still occupied with the other table. She turned back around and hissed, “What are you saying?”

He tipped his head toward her. “You’re haunted, missy. You’re my connection to the land of the living.”

She didn’t want to know anything more; all she wanted was for him to leave before Garcia returned. “Save it for the office.”

“You don’t seem very appreciative of the fact that this could open doors for you.” He grinned slyly. “You’ve got a friend in high places.”

“Please.”

“Let me say one word. Well, a couple of words. Charlene Araignee.”

She sat frozen.

“Write it down,” he said. “You’ll have to go back about thirty years or so.”

She swiveled her head and saw Garcia heading to the table. Snapping her head back around, she whispered, “I’m begging you. Please go now.”

By the time Garcia reached the booth, Creed was gone. Sliding onto the bench, Garcia scrutinized her face from across the table. “What’s wrong?”

Training her eyes on the menu, she mumbled, “What? Nothing … nothing’s wrong.” She couldn’t tell him what had just happened; a ghost in the cellar was one thing, but how could Creed be popping up in a bar in the middle of the day to chat?

Garcia retrieved his menu. “You okay?”

She looked away from him and glanced over at the server. “She hasn’t taken our order yet.”

Garcia raised a hand, and the waitress came up to the table. “What looks good, folks?”

“Cat?”

“You go first,” she said, keeping her eyes down.

Garcia ordered the walleye and a cola. She went with a bowl of wild rice soup.

“Is that it?” asked the waitress.

“Yeah. Thanks.” Bernadette wrapped her arms around herself.

“How about something warm to drink?” asked the server.

“Tea. Hot tea would be great.”

“I thought you were hungry,” Garcia said as the server left with the order.

Rubbing her arms over her jacket, she said, “I think I’m coming down with something. I’ve got a headache and the chills.”

“Want to cancel the soup and take off?”

“No, no. I think I’ve got some Tylenol in my jacket.” She made a show of digging in her pockets when under the table, she was writing down the name Creed had given her.

“Take the rest of the day off, Cat.”

“I have one thing I need to do at the office, and then I’ll go home,” she said, folding the slip of paper on her lap and tucking it away.

“Find the Tylenol?”

“Uh … no. Don’t worry about it.” She put her hands on the tabletop and smiled.

“UNBELIEVABLE,” SHE breathed as she set down the phone. Then she picked it up again to call Garcia.

“Why aren’t you home?” he asked.

“Tony, I know who Charles drowned. It was one twin.”

“Who?”

“His twin sister, Charlene.”

“Holy crap.”

“They would have been—I don’t know—six or so. Charlene supposedly fell into their family’s pool. Charles was found sitting frozen in a lawn chair, staring at her body. Didn’t get help or anything. Police report attributed his behavior to shock.”

“Was he really in shock, or did he let her drown? Do you think he even pushed her in?”

“Who knows?”

“How in the hell did you come up with this?”

“A hunch.” She looked over at Creed’s desk. He wasn’t there to enjoy the moment, and she felt guilty for taking credit.

“So that was before he watched the sick stuff at the VonHader house?”

“Yeah. Watching Ruth nearly drown and getting off on it, that pretty much sealed the deal. It’s a miracle he waited until Ruth died to start acting out.”

“Well, we haven’t gone over old drowning cases yet.”

“Yeah. You’re right.”

“Good work. This should help soften the problems around the tower mess.”

She smiled to herself. Creed had bailed her out again, the spooky SOB. “That might be why my connection to Charles was so strong,” said Bernadette. “He was half of a twin set, like me.”

“Makes sense, at least in Bernadette World,” Garcia said. “Now go home. You’ve had a long day.”

Chapter 44

AFTER SPENDING MOST of tuesday night dwelling on everything that had transpired over the previous ten days, Bernadette welcomed Garcia’s early-morning phone call as a surprise and a relief. “How about we play hooky and take out that bike of yours? There’re some great trails south of the cities, near Faribault.”

“I know all those trails,” said Bernadette. “Problem is you don’t have a bike, and mine would be too small for you. It’s only a one-fifty.”

“I’ve checked out this joint that rents.”

She knew the place he was talking about, and it would be perfect for a novice. At the same time, she was worried about his safety. “How green are you? If you got hurt, I’d feel terrible.”

“I had a motorcycle. Still have the endorsement on my driver’s license.” He paused. “Is your back up for it? I didn’t think about that.”

“God, you make me sound like an old lady. Back is fine. Give me an hour and come over. I’ll have the bike loaded on the truck by the time you get here. Have you got any equipment?”

“A helmet, I think. Stored in a box in the basement.”

“Dig it out and dust it off,” she said. “And wear your worst pair of jeans. You’re probably going to rip the hell out of them and get them all muddy. You need a pair of leather boots. Hunting boots or work boots. They need to be tough and tall. By that, I mean over the calf.”

“Why so high?”

“Obviously any part of any bike that falls on you could ding you up pretty good.”

“Right about that.”

“Dirt bikes have these sort of menacing-looking foot pegs that allow for a better grip, so riders can stand on them. They’re bare metal, as opposed to being covered in rubber like regular bikes. They have springs to lessen the damage if they fall on you, but good boots are essential.”

“I’ve got a pair of shit-kickers that would work.”

“Riding gloves are important, too. I have an extra set. They’re too big for me. They’ll probably be tight on you, but they’ll work. I’ve got spare goggles. Those should fit fine; they’re adjustable.”

“Sounds like we’re going to war.”

WITH HER HONDA and a pile of riding gear rattling in the truck bed behind them, they rode down together in Bernadette’s pickup. During the hour-long drive down south, they exchanged stories about home-maintenance headaches, with Bernadette bitching about her dishwasher and Garcia griping about the furnace that would have to be replaced before winter. She asked about his weight training. He told her about a couple of health clubs that were decent and warned her away from one that had scary showers. They both admitted to dreading the upcoming holidays. She didn’t have close family to spend time with, and he felt crowded out by his clan and that of his deceased wife’s.