“Yeah,” she said, and pulled the door open.
THEY TOOK Garcia’s car. She knew the Grand Am was up for the race; Garcia had won the loaded heap at a police auction. It was tempting to give him grief about not taking a company car, but by the glow of the dashboard she could see his face was tense. He was in no mood for giving or receiving any crap as he piloted the Pontiac through downtown.
“What if he won’t let us in?” she asked. “We really don’t have enough to—”
“He’ll let us in.” With a squeal, he steered around a slow-moving sedan.
“What leverage have we got?”
He turned onto Interstate 94 heading west. “The sister. What was her name again?”
“Ruth.”
“I’ll tell him we’re opening an investigation into her death. If what you said is true, that isn’t a line of bullshit. You can chime in with tidbits you picked up at the nursing home. Make it sound like we know what we’re talking about.”
She eyed the speedometer and was impressed. The sled had wings. “He could refer us to his lawyers and slam the door in our faces.”
“Or he’ll be so upset at the mere mention of the dead sister, he’ll soil his trousers and let us inside.” He slowed behind a taxi and swerved around it.
“You’re being optimistic,” she said.
“If by some miracle we get through the front door, where was most of the action taking place?”
“It started in an upstairs bathroom and ended on the first floor, at the bottom of the stairs. I couldn’t tell if they were Luke VonHader’s stairs, though. There was a landing at the killer’s house. I don’t remember if there was one at the doc’s. The wood was the same. Dark banisters and floor.” She balled her fists in her lap and glanced out the passenger’s window. “I wish my sight could be more precise.”
“Me, too,” he said shortly.
The drove in silence after that, until he muscled the Grand Am onto the exit ramp. “Reach under your seat,” he told her.
She bent over and retrieved a flashlight. “What do we need this for?”
“We’ll scope out the place before we knock,” he said, turning left and heading south toward Summit Avenue. “We might see something that would justify busting down the door.”
She clicked the flashlight on and off and dropped it into her jacket pocket. “Like a body in the foyer?”
“A body in the foyer would do it.”
Chapter 37
AS THEY ENTERED the doctor’s property through the back gate, they saw that the windows at the rear of the house were dark. Crouching down and hugging the side of the building, the two agents circled the stone mansion once and returned to the backyard. The entire place appeared devoid of light and movement.
Pulling the flashlight out of her jacket pocket, she went over to the garage—an old carriage house—and shined the beam through one of the windows. The light bounced off a sea of silver surfaces. Lexus. Volvo. Jag. “That’s interesting,” she muttered.
“What?” whispered Garcia, standing behind her and sharing her view through the window.
“The sedan and the wagon belong to Luke.”
“So he’s home.”
Training the beam on the sports car, she said, “But that silver bullet is Little Brother’s ride.”
“They’re both here.”
She clicked off the light and looked over her shoulder at Garcia. “Which means if there’s a body in the foyer, they’re both culpable.”
While the carriage house had no outside lighting, the neighbors on both sides had bright lights mounted on their garages, making it easy to read the concern on Garcia’s face. “Time to call for backup,” he said, slipping his hand inside his trench coat.
“Not yet. Let’s keep looking around.”
He paused. “Fine.”
Reaching inside her jacket, she unsnapped her holster and took out her Glock. “You stay here in case they try to slip out the back.”
Nodding in agreement, he took out his weapon.
She left Garcia in the backyard and went around to the side of the house. Bernadette ran her eyes up and down the sidewalk and street that ran past the front of the house. There were a few parked vehicles on both sides of the street, but no traffic from cars or pedestrians. It was a quiet residential neighborhood that wouldn’t see any action until dawn. That was good. She had a feeling this saga wasn’t going to have a tidy ending.
She entered the front yard and squatted behind one of the marble lions. Looking up, she noticed a light in a second-story window over the porch. Had they missed it? Didn’t matter. Someone was up and about. Bernadette wanted to confront whoever it was before Garcia called the cavalry. As she was contemplating her next move, her cell vibrated. She fished it out. “What?” she whispered.
Garcia said, “I see a light upstairs.”
“Me, too.”
“Now what?”
A light downstairs flicked on.
After a long silence on his end, Garcia said, “Someone’s in the kitchen. I can see their silhouette through the curtains. I think it’s a guy. Big guy.”
She hoped they stayed there for a while. “I’m going onto the front porch. Call if the kitchen light goes off or you see him leave the room.”
“Careful.”
“Right,” she said, readjusting her grip on her gun. She closed the phone and dropped it into her pocket. Leaving the lions, she tiptoed up the front steps and put her hand on the porch door. It was unlocked. She went inside, closing the door carefully. She eyed the statues crowding the floor space. The collection of stone figures reminded her of a New Orleans cemetery, with its aboveground tombs. “Cities of the Dead,” the graveyards were called. The VonHaders had a Porch of the Dead. She paid no mind to the camera, confident the thing was as dead as during her previous visit.
She went over to the windows and peeked inside. There was a fire going in the fireplace. A man in a robe was bending down in front of the blaze; Bernadette couldn’t make out his face. She went back to the door and tried to peer inside through the small window but couldn’t see a thing. She put her gun in her jacket and raised her fist to knock. The porch light flicked on; the security camera had been working after all.
Bernadette felt her phone vibrate again. She quickly took it out, flipped it open, shut it off, and dropped it back in her pocket. Hands folded demurely in front of her, she stood before the door waiting for someone to appear. Behind her, the screen door creaked open. She spun around and saw Garcia. His eyes went to the porch light above her head, then to the security camera mounted on the wall. Taking his cue from her, he pocketed his gun and stood next to her, facing the door.
They heard a deadbolt crack and then the door opened.
Standing shoulder to shoulder were the two brothers, the younger one dressed in a bathrobe. His hair was damp, and he had a glass of whiskey in his hand. His eyes were bloodshot. “We need to talk,” she said to the pair.
“This was a long time coming,” said the older man. He stepped back and opened the door wider for the two agents.
Garcia extended his hand to the doctor, who was dressed in khakis and a sweater but had slippers on his feet. “Assistant Special Agent in Charge Anthony Garcia.”
Luke VonHader gave Garcia a firm handshake and turned around. “Let’s take this into the kitchen.”
While Garcia and the brothers went ahead, Bernadette stalled to scrutinize the foyer and the base of the stairs. The wooden floors were spotless, with no signs of blood. She eyed the staircase leading to the second floor. It was long, wide, and ornate, with carved spindles and a glossy banister. It was similar to what she’d observed with her sight, but the doctor’s staircase seemed to have no landing. She needed to be sure. “May I use the restroom?” she asked as she trailed behind the three men.
Matthew set his glass on a foyer table. “Go on ahead, gentlemen. I’ll show the lady to the facilities.”