“One more question, Seth. Is there a guy around the towns who looks like … well… short, little bit of a gut, shaved head … Funny, Seth. Very funny … I don’t know. Probably a cross between the two. Never mind. Forget I asked, okay?”
Garcia seemed embarrassed. Tough. Bernadette saw the guy, and he could lead them to their killers.
“We’re following up on some stuff this morning.” Garcia switched the phone to his other ear. “I realize that… We’ve already had this conversation … No. I’m outta commission until this afternoon. Try me this afternoon.” Garcia closed his cell.
She had to ask: “He wanted to know if my egghead guy was—”
“Dr. Evil or Mini-Me.”
“Hilarious.”
“They got some partials from the boot prints. Nothing that’s going to rock our world.”
“I heard.”
“But Hessler. A medical professional. That should make him a strong candidate. We still don’t have a reasonable motive, though.”
“We do. We talked around the edges of it with Lydia. Now we’ve got a live baby being held somewhere. Being kept alive for some purpose.”
“What purpose?”
Bernadette swallowed hard. “What if the baby is needed for a ceremony?”
“Fuck!” spat Garcia. “That would be monstrous. A human sacrifice? An infant?”
“Wiccans don’t do that sort of thing,” said Bernadette. “But there could be renegades in their midst. Same person or persons who left that pig on the altar.”
“What about the woman and fetus killed in Brule years ago? Same thing? Some sort of sacrifice?”
“Could be.”
“Again, what was Lydia doing in Brule? Where’s the connection?”
“It goes back to those letters,” she said. “We have to find them.”
She hung a right off Minnesota 34, turning the truck in to town. She didn’t know where to go from downtown Walker. Garcia waved his hand straight ahead. “Other side of downtown. Keep going. House is on Walker Bay, in a gated community. Practically walking distance from town.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to go in with you?”
“Why would you want to put yourself through that?” Garcia asked.
“He’s probably got people there. You should have people. I can be your people.”
“My people should drop me off and go back to town to get some work done.”
The dozen or so homes in the gated community were all large, modern, and constructed of massive pine logs—not the fake kind but the real deal. The one belonging to Dunton’s buddy sat at the end of the community’s private road, atop a hill along the bay. Like its neighbors, it sat on a couple of acres of wooded land. A stone chimney rose up along one side of the house and along the other side was a three-stall garage. The driveway coming down to the street was made of brick pavers set in a herringbone design. A black Lexus sedan and a white Cadillac Escalade were parked in the driveway in front of the garage doors.
She hung a left to turn onto the paved circular drive that looped past the front of the house and braked at the bottom of the steps leading up to the entrance.
“I’ll call for a ride,” he said, and hopped out.
“Good luck,” she said.
He gave her a little salute and slammed the truck door.
Pulling out of the circular drive, she looked in her rearview mirror. Garcia’s shoulders were slumped as he went up the steps slowly but purposefully, one foot in front of the other. He was moving like a man going to a wake. She hung a right and headed back to town.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
T
he tattoo parlor was on the outskirts of the downtown, anchoring the end of a block. It occupied the bottom half of a two-story brick building. She pulled the truck around to the side, parked in a small lot, and hopped out.
She peered into the storefront windows, which were hand-painted with the name of the tatt shop—Northern Inklings—and its hours. It operated on Sundays, but she had some time to kill before the business opened.
She walked down the sidewalk to check out the neighbors. The sunshine bounced off the snowbanks, white mountain ranges lining the road. A man dressed in flannel shirtsleeves, camo hunting pants, and a fur bomber hat was sprinkling salt at the entrance to the hardware store next door. “Good to see the sun,” he said, pausing in his work to blink into the sky.
“Sure is,” she said through the fog of her own breath.
She spotted Cahill coming down the sidewalk. He raised his hand, and the two met in front of a coffee shop. He’d eschewed his office clothes for jeans and a sweatshirt, which looked less ridiculous with his puffy coat and clunky boots. “How’s the skull, Bern?”
“Great. Thanks for asking.” She pointed to the coffee shop. “How about we grab a cup?”
They went inside and took a table. She thought he looked tired. He must have had dead-cat dreams. “Did you sleep okay?”
“I guess.”
“A
lot happened last night.”
“I’d rather not talk about it.” He pulled off his hat and gloves and scratched his head. “Hat hair.”
“Tell me about it,” said Bernadette, running a hand through her own messy mop.
The waitress came up with a pad and pen. “What can I get you?”
“Mocha latte,” said B.K.
“Whipped cream?” asked the waitress.
“Lots,” said Cahill.
“Anything from the bakery?”
“Well, I already—”
“We have great muffins.”
Cahill paused while he admired her muffins. “Sure.”
“Which would you like? Cranberry’s my favorite.”
“Cranberry,” Cahill repeated numbly.
“You, ma’am?”
“Coffee. Black.”
Carson stared at the girl as she went back to the counter. Bernadette couldn’t believe Garcia had worried about her and B.K., a youngster obsessed with big, young bosoms. Beside muffin girl, Bernadette felt old and flat-chested. She looked at the file Cahill had dropped on the table. “What’s that?”
“Oh, almost forgot.” He handed it to her. “Wharten said this is for you and Antonia. Who is Antonia?”
Bernadette opened the folder and some gruesome crime-scene photos started to slide out. She caught them. The file contained the work the sheriff’s office and the BCA had already done on the Dunton case. “Good. This is good.”
“Who’s this Antonia?”
She flipped through the materials. Skimmed the interview with Landon Guthrie, the hunter who’d discovered the body. Report from the county coroner. Nothing in the folder would bust the case wide open. She closed it and set it down. “So I hear you and the sheriff had good luck matching witches to phone numbers.”
Cahill reached behind him and pulled a notebook out of his back pants pocket. Slapped it on the table. “It’s all there.”
“Fantastic.” She grabbed the pad and started flipping through it. In neat printing, Cahill had profiled one witch per page. At the top was the phone number and below that were the name, age, and residence. That was followed by the individual’s profession and other background information.
Frederick Cleveland, 39. Akeley. Self-emp. carpenter. Divorced, 3 kids. 2 speed viol. last 5 yrs. Hunts w/bow + black powder. Aka Drachen.
Aleck Johansonn, 50. Nevis. Butcher. Married, 4 kids + 2 grand. Rifle hunter. Aka Lord Valdeth. One DWI 8 yrs ago. Wife, Meredith Johansonn, 48, homemaker. Aka Lady Bronwyn. No crime/traffic.
Irene Edwalters, 27. Walker. Home hairdresser/electrolysis. Single. 1 kid. No guns. Aka Sapphyre. No crime/traffic.
Bernadette stopped when she got to Dr. Sven Hessler’s name and number. “This guy worked on me last night.”
“What?” asked Cahill.
She pointed to the page. “Remember that ER doc who was hanging around the hospital morgue?”
“Tall, skinny dude with glasses?”
“Yup. He was on duty last night.” Bernadette ran her eyes over her physician’s information:
Sven Hessler, 36. Park Rapids. Doc. Single. No kids. Angler. No guns. Aka Lord Blade. Speed viol. last year.
“So the aliases are their coven names,” said Bernadette, continuing to flip through the notebook.
“Right,” said Cahill. “Some are lords and ladies. Seth said it has to do with reaching a certain level. Second-degree initiation—whatever that means. Sounds a little Dungeons & Dragons.”
As she continued flipping through the notebook, Bernadette spotted Bossard’s name. Graham hadn’t lied after all.
Eve Bossard, 47. Walker. OB/GYN. Single. No kids. Anti-gun. Aka Lady Morgana. No crime/traffic.
The obstetrician just got bumped up to Bernadette’s short list.
The waitress came by and set the muffin and mocha latte in front of B.K. and the black coffee in front of Bernadette. “Can I get you anything else?”
“I’m good,” said Bernadette.
“Thanks,” mumbled Cahill. He watched intently as the girl went over to another table, leaned over, and wiped it down, her muffins spilling out of her sweater.
“Did Wharten mention whether any of these lords and ladies are the coven leaders?”
“What?”
“Carson?” Bernadette snapped her fingers in front of him.
“Sorry. What?”
“Did the sheriff identify the coven leaders?”
“Not really.”
“Is he the one who gave you the criminal and traffic background?”
“Some of it. Some of it I pulled up from the usual databases. That’s not to say I couldn’t have missed something.”
“There’s got to be twenty names here.”
“Twenty-five exactly.”
“Not
that
many, are there?”
“Count,” he said, pointing to the notebook.
She returned to the beginning and started turning pages. Two sheets in the middle were stuck together with something purple. “You and the sheriff went out for pie last night?”
“Yeah.”
“Blueberry?”
“How’d you guess?”
“That’s why they pay me the big bucks,” she said, gently separating the pages. She stared at the sheet she’d initially missed. Smiled tightly. “That lying, conniving—”
“Who?” asked Cahill.
“I think I know who erased the pentagram from Lydia Dunton’s forehead.”
“Really?” His eyes went to the notebook. “Which one?”
“Nurse Delores Martini, aka Lady Willow.”
“You sure she’s the one?” asked Cahill, leaning across the table.
“She was at the hospital the night Tony … the night Garcia and I saw the star was gone from the body. She’s the one who pointed us to Ashe.”
“You think she’s the killer?”
Bernadette closed the pad and put it into her jacket pocket. “She just graduated to my short list, along with a couple of other coven members with medical expertise.”
Bernadette was excited by what she’d found, but unless she was calling to tell Garcia she had the killers in cuffs she couldn’t interrupt his meeting. She checked her watch. A tad too early to head over to the tatt shop, too. Reaching over to a neighboring table, she snagged a coffee-stained copy of the
Star Tribune
. She paged through it, scanning for anything on the girl who’d been found dead in the forest, or the woman discovered hanging in her barn. She didn’t find a word on either, but there was plenty on the cold snap, as well as some post-blizzard analysis. Minnesotans loved to wallow in their bad weather.
Cahill bit his muffin in half, chewed three times, and swallowed. Licked his fingers. “Sheriff said the witches are all meeting tonight in the woods because it’s a full moon. A little full-moon soirée. Plan is we slide in, watch them awhile to see if they’re up to no good, and then crash the bash. Scare the heck out of them and see who squeals first. See who squeals like a stuck pig.”
She took a sip of coffee. “You’re sounding like … I don’t know.”
“Sheriff Wharten?”
“No. Barney Fife.” She took another drink. “What’s everyone else doing today?”
“Some of the guys are still trying to get something out of the witch lady’s boyfriend. The crime-scene dudes—who knows what the hell they’re doing? Jerking off in that big trailer of theirs.”
“Do I detect a little resentment?”
“They get all the glory.” He took a sip of his mocha latte, getting whipped cream on his nose. “There’s what, three of those CSI shows on TV now? Four?”
• • •
They finished their drinks and Bernadette threw down some bills. “My treat.”
“Now what?” he asked.
She stood up and put on her jacket. “I’m heading over to the tattoo parlor. Should be open by now.”
“Run this tatt thing by me. Why are you checking it out?”
She told him about Lydia’s heart, and the possibility that she’d gotten it while she was in Walker.
“A
long shot,” she admitted.
“Want some company?” he asked, putting on his coat.
“Sure. Why not?”
They walked a couple of doors down to the shop. She pulled on the door handle. Still locked.
Cahill checked the hours posted against his watch. “Should be open.”
She peered through the glass and saw a wooden counter with an old-fashioned cash register. Behind that was an Oriental folding screen used as a room divider. The work was probably done on the other side. Was someone behind the screen? She tapped on the glass door. A ruddy-faced man poked his head out from behind the divider and mouthed something to them, but she couldn’t understand it. He disappeared behind the screen again. “There’s someone inside,” she said.
“Here he comes,” said Cahill.
The guy came out from behind the screen, went around the counter, and unlocked the door. “Sorry, folks,” he said, and held it open for them.
She stepped inside. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Can you give me another minute?” he asked. Before they could answer, he went back behind the screen. “Had a puker in here yesterday. Cleaned it up, but it still stinks.”
Bernadette’s nose wrinkled. She did smell vomit. She heard him spraying. Vomit and floral air freshener. “Are you the owner?”
“Sole proprietor. Sole artist. Sole inmate of the asylum.” More spraying. “Go ahead and look for your tatts. See if anything speaks to you. I do custom work, too. Just give me a rough drawing.”
She saw that the walls to the right and left of the entrance were lined with rows of framed pictures. Within each rectangle was either a close-up color photo of a tattoo adorning various body parts—arms, chests, shoulders, legs, backs, breasts—or a color sketch of a tattoo design. Wild tropical birds and flowers. Skulls. Fantastic butterflies. Fairies. Nude, winged women. Flaming motorcycles. Flaming cars. Tigers and lions and leopards. Barbed wire and chains. Unicorns. A flying pig.
“See anything you like?” he asked from behind the screen.
“There’s too much to choose from,” she said as she unzipped her jacket and pulled off her hat.
Cahill was studying the naked back and butt of a curvaceous tattooed woman. “Cool,” he muttered.
One of the framed photos was of the man behind the screen.
LEONARD LENNY
NAVARE, it said under the picture.
RESIDENT LUNATIC
. It showed him from the waist up, in a black leather vest. His exposed chest and arms were covered with a little bit of everything. In the photo, he was sporting a set of long blond braids.
“You cut your hair,” Bernadette said.
He came out from behind the screen. He was wearing the same vest as in the photo, but it was pulled over a T-shirt. A bow to the cold weather. He ran a meaty hand through his buzz cut. “Getting too old for that stuff. Starting to get gray in it. Chicks don’t dig that gray.”
The stink was getting to her, and she wanted to make this quick. She pulled out her wallet and flashed her ID. “Agent Bernadette Saint Clare. FBI.”
“Whoa,” he said, taking a step back from her. “Didn’t see that coming. My taxes are up-to-date, ma’am.”
“That’s good to know, but I’m not here to talk taxes.” She pulled Lydia’s photo out of her jacket and held it up. “Recognize her?”
He took a set of reading glasses out of his jeans and slipped them on. “Chicks don’t dig these much, either.” He took the photo from her and held it up to his nose.
“Take a good look,” she said. “This is important.”
“No,” he said, lowering the picture and handing it back to her. “Never … never seen her before.”
Bernadette didn’t believe him. “She got a tattoo from you.”
“I don’t think so,” he said.
“A heart tatt,” she said.
“I’d remember if I’d—”
“Your DNA will show up on the ink,” interjected Cahill.
Bernadette was pretty sure that was bullshit, and had to give the kid points for creativity. “That’s right,” she said evenly.
“Your
DNA, Lenny.”
Navare swallowed hard and extended his hand. “Let me have another look.”
She smiled tightly and handed him the photo. “Think hard, Lenny. If we catch you covering up anything—”
“I had a senior moment is all. That’s right. Gave her an itty-bitty heart tatt.” He pointed to the right side of his face, just below the outside of his eye.
“When?” asked Cahill.
He pulled off his cheaters and handed the photo back to Bernadette. “What did she do? Rob a bank?”
Cahill came up next to Bernadette. “When did you see her last?”
“That don’t sound too good,” he said. “What happened to her?”
“Sir, if you could answer the question …” said Cahill.