“Me, too. I could go for a Whopper. Let’s hit a Burger King after we turn over the baby-sitting duties.”
Red checked his watch. “That’s hours away.”
“Christ. I feel like we’ve been on the road for a week.” Thorsson glared past the Saturn at the Saab. “What has he been doing? Ten under the limit?”
“He’s had traffic in front of him,” said Red.
After the light turned green, the Saab, the Saturn, and the van paraded through the intersection. The Saturn swerved into the left lane and hung a left, vanishing down a side street. Trying to keep his distance, the agent slowed to a crawl. An Audi pulling out of an office building’s parking lot slipped between the Saab and the van. To be safe, Red hung back a little more and let another car join the motorcade.
“Careful,” cautioned Thorsson.
“I know what I’m doing,” said his partner.
A couple of blocks to the Minneapolis border, the agents saw the Saab ease to the curb and stop in front of a duplex. “Now what?” wondered Thorsson.
Hanging back half a block, the van pulled to the curb. There were no other vehicles parked between them and the Saab. Red fished a clipboard out from under the driver’s seat while his partner reached behind and grabbed a shirt encased in dry cleaner’s plastic.
Red asked, “Should we call Garcia back so he can call Saint Clare?”
Thorsson said, “We don’t need her holding our dicks for us.”
“I guess we could wait and see what’s up first.”
The Saab’s front passenger and driver’s doors popped open in unison. Wakefielder got out, went around the car, and offered his hand to the girl. Ignoring his gesture, she got out of the car and headed for the front door of the duplex, weaving a bit while she walked. The professor reached inside the Saab, took out the paper bag, and followed the girl, standing at her elbow while she foraged in her purse. She dropped the purse, and the professor picked it up. She snatched it out of his hand and resumed her digging, swaying while she did so.
“Is she drunk or what?” asked Red.
“Fucking early for that shit,” said Thorsson.
She finally produced a key, worked the lock and knob, and pushed the door open. She ripped the bag from the professor’s hand, went inside, and slammed the door in his face.
Even from half a block away, the agents could see the tension. “Trouble in paradise,” said Thorsson.
Red craned his neck while scratching on the clipboard. “I got the address.”
“Good,” said Thorsson.
Wakefielder got back into the Saab and started it up.
“Do we stay with her or go after him?” asked Red.
“We call the boss,” said Thorsson, tossing the dry cleaning behind him and picking up his phone.
“He’s pulling away,” said Red.
“Don’t move,” said Thorsson, punching his cell.
Wakefielder did a U-turn in the middle of University Avenue, cutting in front of two eastbound cars. The drivers laid on the horns. Red didn’t like the aggressive move. “Do you think he saw us?”
“He didn’t see shit. He just drives like a putz.”
“What if we lose him?” Red asked worriedly.
“We can catch up.”
Garcia answered after one ring. “What?”
“Girl got dropped off at home.” Thorsson took the clipboard out of his partner’s hand and gave Garcia the address. “This might be a good time to pump her for information.”
“What makes you say that?” asked Garcia.
Thorsson said authoritatively: “She had a fight with the man. Slammed the door in his face. On top of that, she might have had a couple. Tongue should be good and loose.”
Garcia asked, “Booze this early? You sure?”
“She was swaying and dropping her belongings.” Thorsson cleared his throat. “Uh … I’d be willing to go inside and talk to her.”
“Saint Clare’s in the neighborhood, and I’m thinking she’s going to want to visit with the young lady. Besides, you’re tailing the professor.” Garcia paused. “You are still on him, aren’t you?”
“Like white on rice, sir.” Thorsson looked at his partner and thumbed over his shoulder.
Shaking his head with worry, Red checked his rearview mirror and looked through his windshield. He pulled out of their parking spot and did his own U-turn in the middle of University Avenue. He looked up ahead. Lots of traffic but no Saab.
Seeing what his partner was seeing, Thorsson ran a hand over the top of his head. “Pardon me for asking, sir, but are you sure we should bother with surveillance the whole weekend? How certain are we that this is the right guy? That’s a lot of man-hours based on a hunch.”
“Agent Saint Clare’s got more than a hunch, Agent Thorsson,” Garcia said brusquely.
“Yes, sir,” said Thorsson, his face knotted with anxiety.
“Well, nice work, Greg,” said Garcia. “Pass it on to Red. I know it wasn’t the most exciting assignment.”
Thorsson rubbed his face with his free hand. “Yes, sir.”
Garcia said, “Hang in there. Your relief should be showing up at noon.”
Thorsson closed his phone and turned on his partner. “Fuck! How did you lose him?”
Red came up on a minivan in the left lane and stopped at a light. He veered into the right lane and blew through the intersection, barely missing a station wagon crossing in front of him. A cacophony of horns followed. “It’s your fault. You told me to wait.”
“You know what you’re doing, right? That’s what you told me, you little shit.”
Weaving in and out of traffic, the frenetic delivery van finally reached Raymond, where it took a screeching left. “He’s gotta be back home.”
“He’d better be home,” snarled Thorsson.
“What if he’s not?” squeaked Red.
“Then you’re fucked, my friend.”
SPEEDING BACK to University Grove, the two agents didn’t hear the wails of a police car and a paramedic rig coming down University Avenue from the west.
The squad and the rig took a hard left and screeched into the duplex’s driveway. Ten seconds later, Bernadette pulled up in front of the building. They’d all arrived too late. Animal Print Girl—Zoe Cameron to her family and friends—was already dead.
Chapter 24
“WHAT’S HE DOING right now? find out!”
“Calm down, Cat. You’re going to pop a vein.” Garcia punched a number into his phone. “You know, Greg and the kid have been on top of him the entire time. They’ve been real good about calling in.”
“Find out.”
Garcia held up his hand to silence her while he spoke into his cell. “Give me the latest on Wakefielder … Good … Good … Don’t let him out of your sight.” Garcia closed his phone.
“Well?”
“Raking leaves in his front yard.”
“Of course he’s raking leaves.” She motioned toward the house with a chop of her hand. “This is the last thing he’d do if he were guilty. The last thing!”
The pair stood on the front lawn of the duplex. Behind them, Minneapolis cops moved in and out of the house like a blue swarm. Not a single reporter or photographer pestered them. When private citizens in private homes commit certain acts, they don’t make the news.
“He just had a federal agent harass him at work,” she said. “So why would a smart man—a Harvard guy, for chrissake—turn around and kill someone the very next day?”
“Because it’s the last thing you’d expect him to do?” Garcia offered.
“He wasn’t even in the city limits.” She flapped an arm toward the east. “He was in St. Paul, with an agent and a half watching his ass.”
“Perfect alibi,” said Garcia.