The neighbor’s door popped open and the professor went inside.
“Where does he think he’s going?” Garcia asked.
“Maybe he’s gonna get someone to beat us up.”
“Should we go after him?” Garcia wondered.
“I’d rather get inside his house.”
“What if he stays inside the neighbor’s place?”
Before she could respond, they saw the professor exit the classic colonial and thump down the steps. A tall, gaunt, bearded man was right behind him. Both wore L. L. Bean’s version of weekend work duds: corduroy pants and earth-toned turtlenecks under cable-knit cardigans. Wakefielder wore a barn coat over his sweater while his neighbor finished his ensemble with a plaid wool vest.
Wakefielder walked back to the leaf pile in the center of his yard and stood facing the agents, his feet planted square with his shoulders. His plaid pal stood next to him, burying his hands in the front pockets of the vest.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Wakefielder,” Bernadette said, as she and Garcia walked into the yard. “I’ve brought Assistant Special Agent in Charge Anthony Garcia.”
Wakefielder turned his head to his neighbor. “And I’ve brought Professor Nathaniel C. Selwyn. He’s an expert in criminal law, criminal procedure, and criminal evidence.”
“I’m familiar,” Garcia said tightly as he and Selwyn exchanged hard stares.
Bernadette said, “We’d like to talk about Zoe.”
“How do you know Zoe?” asked Wakefielder. “What does she—”
“Don’t say another word, Finlay,” said the law prof, putting his hand on Wakefielder’s shoulder.
“She’s dead,” said Garcia. “Died this morning, shortly after you dropped her at home.”
“No, that’s not … I just saw her,” Wakefielder stammered. He looked from Garcia to Bernadette, as if seeking confirmation from her.
Bernadette nodded. “Her roommate found her dead. Do you know anything about that?”
“Don’t answer that!” Selwyn barked.
Wakefielder zeroed in on Garcia’s face. “Nate, this gentleman came to my door at two o’clock this morning—two o’clock—under the pretense of delivering a pizza.”
“I’m not surprised,” said Selwyn. “The Minneapolis Division has a reputation for such …”
“Such what?” snapped Garcia, who took a step toward Selwyn.
“Professor Wakefielder, aren’t you hearing us?” asked Bernadette. “Your former girlfriend is dead.”
“This is another ruse, Finlay,” said the law prof, pulling Wakefielder backward by the elbow. “Don’t respond. Let’s go in the house.”
With Selwyn in the lead, the two neighbors turned their backs on the agents, marched across the yard, and went up the Tudor’s front steps. The men disappeared inside, the door slamming hard after them.
“Fuck,” Garcia spat, his eyes burning a hole in the Tudor’s front door. “Of all the people for him to hide behind.”
“You’ve crossed swords with Selwyn, I take it.”
Garcia turned and started back for the cars. “Let’s go.”
“That’s it?” she asked, going after him.
“Let’s get some lunch,” he grumbled.
OVER SOUP and sandwiches at a café in the neighborhood, Garcia told her about Selwyn.
“The bastard conducts seminars for other attorneys so they can beat us.” Garcia picked up his roast beef on a Kaiser, chomped it into a half moon, chewed twice, and swallowed.
“He teaches them how to successfully defend someone against federal charges.” Bernadette snipped off the corner of her grilled cheese sandwich and chewed.
Garcia raised his sandwich to his mouth. “Yeah.”
“Good for him.” She lifted her spoon and sipped some tomato soup.
“Not good for him.” He took another bite of his roast beef.
Bernadette dabbed at the corners of her mouth with a napkin. “Citizens have a right to—”
“I was a speaker at one of his bullshit seminars,” said Garcia. “Afterward I took questions.”
“What’d they do, rip you a new one?” she asked, and took another bite of grilled cheese.
“It was a feeding frenzy,” he said. “They took off on me about the fingerprint screwup in that Portland terrorist case and the legality of that Russian computer crimes sting.”
“Old news,” she said, and took a sip of water.
“They went on and on about warrantless wiretapping.”
“That’s to be expected.”
“They even bitched about the IRS,” he said.
“They heard the word federal and went after you.”
“Like a pack of dogs.”
“Selwyn didn’t warn you?”
“He told me to expect questions about—I don’t know—the increase in bank robberies across the Midwest or something.”
“He set you up.”
Garcia nodded and shoved the last wedge of roast beef into his mouth.
“What about the surveillance?” she asked.
He swallowed and wiped his mouth. “Now he knows we’re watching him, so it won’t do any good. Plus with that Selwyn on his side and living right next door—”
“We’d better think of another way to get at Wakefielder.”
“What did you think of Wakefielder’s reaction, or lack thereof, to the news his ex was dead?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “If he did do it, you’d think he’d be smart enough to act grief-stricken.”
“Could be he’s not good with the dramatics and decided he couldn’t pull them off,” Garcia suggested. “Pretending he didn’t believe us was more in his range.”
They heard ringing coming from the coats piled next to her on the restaurant bench. She set down her spoon, went into her jacket pocket, and produced her cell. Opened it.
“Agent Saint Clare? This is Matthew VonHader.”
She frowned for a moment, and then her eyes widened as she remembered Dr. Luke VonHader’s younger brother. “What can I do for you, Mr. VonHader?”
Garcia set down his glass and leaned across the table. “What can I do for you?” Matthew responded.
She had only been on the phone for a few seconds with this operator, and she was already losing patience. “Look, if you’re calling to—”
Matthew: “I have some … information I’d like to share.”
“What sort of information?” she asked while smiling at Garcia.
Matthew said, “Over dinner.”
“What sort of information?” she repeated.
“Dinner tonight. Seven o’clock,” said Matthew.
“Dinner? I’d like to know what this is about first.” She watched Garcia. He looked ready to jump out of the booth.
Matthew said, “Dinner, or I’m hanging up.”
He sounded like a brat threatening to hold his breath. She rolled her eyes and asked, “Where?”
“Downtown St. Paul,” he said, and gave her the name and address of the restaurant.
The trendy eatery was in walking distance from her office. She’d passed it a hundred times but had never set foot inside. “I know the place.”
“Seven o’clock,” Matthew repeated.
“Right.” Shaking her head with wonder, she closed the phone.
“The shrink?” Garcia asked.
“His younger brother, Matt. I met him at the doc’s office. He wants me to meet him for dinner downtown. Seven tonight. He has ‘information.’”
The waitress came by with the check, and Garcia picked it up. Dug out his wallet and opened it. “Want me to go with you?”
“You might scare him off.”
He set some bills on the table. “I could sit at the bar and keep an eye on you.”
Now Garcia was sounding weird. “What is he going to do, attack me with the pepper mill?”
“I really think I should—”
“Let me deal with this,” she said, sliding from the bench with their outerwear in her arms. Garcia got out, and she handed him his coat.
“What good is the little brother?”
“Could be he knows about Luke’s relationship with Wakefielder, or maybe he can tell me something about Klein and Cameron. He’s real talkative. The receptionist whisked him away before his mouth really got going yesterday.”